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twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

doubt

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

secret

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

near

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

keenly

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

circumstances

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

forgot

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

prowlers

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

asszony

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

round

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

strange

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

mood

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

how

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

lively

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

cunning

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

fine

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

stays

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

majesty--

How many times the word 'majesty--' appears in the text?

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

sometimes

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

twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present. She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me. "Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo. "I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her. "Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine. I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life. "You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I. "Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children. "Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture. "The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones. I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old woman's when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance; I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with pigs' trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out. At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An instant later he saw me. "My lord," he said, "your train will be ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour." I perceived a faint smile on the old woman's face. I was sure then that I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and thus had no information of value to carry with me. "If your lordship would kindly recommend me--" said the old hag. "Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll recommend you to be careful whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother." "I take the money beforehand," she retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence. There was nothing to be done; James's face urged me towards the station. I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman's brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my hand on his shoulder, saying: "The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James." He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt himself. "Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?" "No, come with me," I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him. Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused. I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head in that lion's mouth in the Konigstrasse. "There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal Bauer," said I. "As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt reminded me. "He'll be there if Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we're ready for him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen." "Only one here?" I asked. "Ay, but a good one," said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. "We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and those while the king is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and stand to that with his life till we come back. You're equal to that, eh, Lieutenant?" I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll. Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable's own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man's calm confidence in his master and his master's fortune also went far to comfort me. "The king should be back soon," said Sapt at last, with a glance at his big, old-fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll be too tired to sit up long. We shall be free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert would come to the lodge!" And the colonel's face expressed a lively pleasure at the idea. Six o'clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen's feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which would amply account for the king's delay, fell to speculating on remote possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness. "Still it's strange that he doesn't come," murmured the queen, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but not so dark but that we could have seen the king's party as soon as it came into the open. If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now we had lapsed into silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were. For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go and seek him?" "A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt with a shrug. But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king's huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster. But why was not the king with them? "The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam," suggested Bernenstein. This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation, joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen, who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king's chief huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen. "Well, Simon, where is the king?" she asked, trying to smile. "The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty." "Pray, deliver it to me, Simon." "I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so for myself, a better run.--" "You may say, friend Simon," interrupted the constable, tapping him on the shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's message should come first." "Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're always so down on a man, aren't you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, and--" "Is this the king's message, Simon?" asked the queen, smiling in genuine amusement, but impatiently. "Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty's message." "Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," growled Sapt testily. For here were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God, had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows. Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own seductive memories and Sapt's brusque exhortations. "As I was saying, madam," he resumed, "the boar led us a long way, but at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the coup de grace. Well, then it was very late." "It's no earlier now," grumbled the constable. "And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his majesty--" "God help us!" groaned the constable. Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand. "Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" said the queen, at once encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman's skill. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge--" I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time. "Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty's orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him to cook a steak and--" "Stayed where with the king?" roared Sapt. "Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night, and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the king's message." We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him, saying: "Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand." He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine. Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled. After we were left alone, there was a moment's silence. Then I said: "Suppose Rupert--" The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh. "On my life," said he, "how things fall out! We say he will go to the hunting-lodge, and--he goes!" "If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't stop him!" I urged again. The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us. "Gentlemen, my letter!" said she. Sapt wasted no time. "Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes." Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the stables. "Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, "except that we must be there before Count Rupert." I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to say. I was silent. "You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened eyes. "Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a bow. "You won't let him reach the king?" "Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a smile. "From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a trembling voice, "from my heart--" "Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the hunting-lodge. But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's tall figure beside her. "Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I had meant to say before. "I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not let me speak. Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste. "We had best see what it is," said the constable, pulling up. A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in amusement, half in vexation. "Why, is it you, James?" I cried. "Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's servant. "What the devil do you want?" asked Sapt. "I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir." "I did not give you any orders, James." "No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent me away. So I made haste to follow you." Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what horse is that?" "The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking you." Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed. "Much obliged for your compliment," said he. "The horse is mine." "Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful interest. For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again. "Forward!" said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest. CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau, ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return. Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have been a most inefficient ally. Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau. Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our only resource. We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the ground. "Give me a match," he whispered. James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house, returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by which we had approached. "It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were too late. Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us. "You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me the matches, and I'll go in." James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door. "What was it?" I whispered. "I fell," said Sapt. "Over what?" "Come and see. James, stay here." I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the passage. "Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked. "We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is what I fell over." Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage. "A dead man?" I guessed instantly. "Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage. "It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners. I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

milk

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

spared

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

physiological

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

head

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

resistance

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

moon

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

lighted

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

noble

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

beads

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

brain

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

tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

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tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers. She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin. "You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his phrases. "That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth. "Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. "Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll pass wi' a cat-lick." She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. "Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed. She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress. Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her. But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was: "I want to go home." "Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." "I want to go home." "What for? What ails thee?" "I want my mother." "Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." "I want to go home." There would be tears in a moment. "Can ter find t'road, then?" And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble. The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack. Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry: "Mother!" Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors. At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely speaking. The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape it. Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him. The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue sky. So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both stimulated, the morning was fine. What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped. One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had no walls. Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish. "Is it very bad?" he asked. She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes. He turned away, white to the gills. "It's not so very bad," said the midwife. He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. The child glanced up at him, frightened. "I want my mother," she quavered. "Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. "Has she got a headache?" "No--she's going to have a baby." The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror. "I want my mother," came the cry of panic. "Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. "I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation. Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. "Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. "You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my duckie; never mind, angel." But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. "I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. "She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: "No, you're not to undress me--I want my mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken. "Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry." The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. "I want--my--mother," she wept. "When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing. "Don't make a noise," he said. And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. "I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind voice. A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice and the crying. "You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger. And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, choking: "I want my mother." He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice repeating the same cry. "Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the sofa. "Where's her nightie?" he asked. Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and socks. She was ready. "Do you want a drink?" he asked. She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and choking came the broken: "I--want--my--mother." "Do you want a drink?" he said again. There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go through him. He would like to break it. He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or anything, not aware. A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they insisted. And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. It was some little time before he came to, and turned to attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on. "Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, hush--let it be enough." His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural. "Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up the beast." He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern. "You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," said Tilly. "Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness. "We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure. There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed darkness. He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still. In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in silence. The journey had to be performed several times. There was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier. The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child. "Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her breath as she spoke. "Yes." "Will they eat all their stuff up first?" "Yes. Hark at them." And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home. The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became blank. When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth was also a little open. He rose quickly and went back to the house. "Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. "God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his wife's door. He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her breathing. This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, untouched. He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What had she to do with him? She was other than himself. Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the infinite. When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking unseen and steadily upon him. The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the world of life. CHAPTER III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough. He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with remorseless craving. She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be. So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child. But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own centre. Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain. At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with

craved

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

moments

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

held

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

why

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

intelligible

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

clutching

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

opinion

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

away

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

yourself

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

shouts

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

boasts

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

gig

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

inn

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

themselves

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

beaten

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

us

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

cry

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

untrue

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

shame

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

thursday

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

unfair?" "I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully." "Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything?" "George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much." "If it did, you had better say so at once." But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. "Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character." "I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it." "When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. [Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."] "I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered much." "And is that to be my answer?" "I don't know what answer you want." "Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable." "No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said. "You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me." She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?" "Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your anger." "Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly?" "I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me." "There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me." Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door close behind him. When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion. CHAPTER XLVII. Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment. When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return. There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor. But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield. Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night. "Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled." "Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?" Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress. "And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish." "I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say." "You're a young thing, Jeannette." "Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look." "But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?" "I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears. "Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?" "The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready." "They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting." "Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?" "Of course they won't, you little fool, you." "Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am." "But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing." "Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this." "About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am." "Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers. "To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard." "Indeed I have, Jeannette." "And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?" "But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other." "When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world." "What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that." "Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so." "He's nothing to me, girl." "And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?" "He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow. "But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question. "Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock." "I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat. "It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom. Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps. "Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy. "Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question. "Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel. "Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage." "Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments. "No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?" "Not in the least, so long as he is decent." "I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow." "Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire." "I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him." "I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me." Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief. "Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July." "And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress." "Not stay at Oileymead?" "No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now." "But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?" "Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life." "No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be." "And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease. "Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she. "Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!" "Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise. "I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over.

knows

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

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ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

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ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

nonsense

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

me,--even

How many times the word 'me,--even' appears in the text?

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

vehemence

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

went

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

courtin

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

inwardly

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

further

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

declared

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

westmoreland

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

final

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

counties

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ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

please

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ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

tunnel

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

park

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

engagements

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

breakfasts

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

limmeridge

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

ungrateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whisper a word into his ear as he passed through the doorway into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had offered to go abroad,--to go abroad and leave his politics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had suggested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in the house with the object of offering him that very thing for which he had so longed! As he thought of this his heart became heavy within him. Such chances,--so he told himself,--do not come twice in a man's way. When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost everything for which he had been working all his life. But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the library door he was resolute,--he thought that he could be resolute in adhering to his promise. "Duke," he said, "I'm afraid I have kept you waiting." And the two political allies shook each other by the hand. The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even if Mr. Palliser had been out. "And I suppose you guess why I'm come?" said the Duke. "I would rather be told than have to guess," said Mr. Palliser, smiling for a moment. But the smile quickly passed off his face as he remembered his pledge to his wife. "He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place." The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new political arrangement which he was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady, practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil. He had been the first to declare aloud that Plantagenet Palliser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer; and it had been long known, though no such declaration had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as the Duke wished; and he was prepared to celebrate some little ovation with his young friend before he left the house in Park Lane. "And who goes out with him?" asked Mr. Palliser, putting off the evil moment of his own decision; but before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded himself that under his present circumstances he had no right to ask such a question. His own decision could not rest upon that point. "But it does not matter," he said; "I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me." "Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have been more surprised had his friend talked of declining heaven. "I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from his chair, and was standing, with both his hands upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality, had vanished. His fine round face had become almost ludicrously long; his eyes and mouth were struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser's name into the Prime Minister's ear, and now--. But he could not, and would not, believe it. "Nonsense, Palliser," he said. "You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced. "It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support him. "It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me." "Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did." "It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of agony came over his face. There are men who can talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such a friend as the Duke; but it was essentially necessary to him that he should justify himself. "Upon my word," said the Duke, "I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over." "I have promised to take my wife abroad." "Is that it?" said the Duke, looking at him with surprise, but at the same time with something of returning joviality in his face. "Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up." "But I have promised to go at once." "Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light." "You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanour, and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with his former manner, came upon him as he said this. "Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment." "If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go." "But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do." "When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that." "Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--" "My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength." "Oh, no!" said the Duke. "If you are sure that it is imperative--" "It is imperative." "I could give you twenty-four hours, you know." Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. "I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?" "It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad." "Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain." Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in his chair; he then rose and walked towards the window, as he spoke. "There are things worse than death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he spoke them; the words were indeed whispered, but the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press him any more on the subject of his wife. "And must this be final?" said the Duke. "I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square." "We shall be sitting after eight, I think." "Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling." "I will,--I will." "I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else." "I think you know that you are safe with me." "I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me." "As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man." "I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer." "But you haven't refused as yet," said the Duke. "I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was alone. He had not been alone before since the revelation which had been made to him by his wife, and the words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears. "I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;--I do! I do! I do!" They were not pleasant words for a young husband to hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would make them more miserable under the infliction than it had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger significance than they should bear;--and he was essentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he thought, even while those words were hissing in his ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Nevertheless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered those words, which made him feel that the world was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was aware,--that he had forgiven his wife; that he had put his arm round her and embraced her after hearing her confession,--and that she, mutely, with her eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for him. Then something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-doing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now,--now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to part with her, even if there were no question of public scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly by that assertion that she loved another man. She had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men who may love their wives, though they never can have been in love before their marriage. When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have been his time to go down to the House, he took his hat and walked into the Park. He made his way across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and there he remained for an hour, walking up and down beneath the elms. The quidnuncs of the town, who chanced to see him, and who had heard something of the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt, that he was meditating his future ministerial career. But he had not been there long before he had resolved that no ministerial career was at present open to him. "It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it be possible." But he was a slow man, and he did not go off instantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go down to the House of Commons because men would make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that hour he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired, were already done with. There was no doubt about that. It might have been better for him not to have married; but now that he was married, and that things had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go through Switzerland," he said to himself, "to Baden, and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome. She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the new life will make a change in her. She shall have her own friend with her." Then he went down to the House of Lords, and saw the Duke. "Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened to him, "of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad, and it might almost have been thought that he was going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Finespun with the strongest political feeling of which he was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How hard had he not worked to bring about this arrangement, which was now to be upset because a woman had been foolish! "I never above half liked her," said the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the Duchess's complaints of her. "I must go to Brock at once," he said aloud, "and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted. We may as well follow this political movement to its end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then those two ministers sent for another minister,--another noble Lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets. These three discussed the matter together, and on the following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr. Finespun. To the end of the Session, at any rate, Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of the Exchequer while all the quidnuncs of the nation, shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not dare to face the Opposition without him. In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to their tour abroad. "We may as well make up our minds to start at once," said he. "At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us." CHAPTER LX. Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market. Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far. One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman. "A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?" "Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at." Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him. "Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy. This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room. Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down. "Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant. "Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed." Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her. "I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?" "No, sir; I think not," said Alice. "I am your cousin's clerk." "Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir." "If you please, miss." George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:-- DEAR ALICE, After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours, GEORGE VAVASOR. The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it. But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood. Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said. "Yes, sir; my cousin has explained." "And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house. But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time. "It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy. "Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice. "Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad." "But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques." "No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same." She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him. "You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say." "Fourteen days

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up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

fire

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

getting

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

saints

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

easy

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

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up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

places

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up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

vocabulary

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

ocean

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

watch

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

hotel

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

let

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

baster

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

checks

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

standing

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

sidekick

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

raise

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

rendering

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

depressing

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

dismay

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

up. Romeo's crying. A moment of silence....then all three burst into laughter. ROMEO You fucking assholes! INT. PRUDENTIAL BUILDING, LUXURY APARTMENT -- DAY A sprawling high rise apartment, overlooking Boston: buffet table, plasma screen, etc. The Capos are taking advantage of the amenities. Concezio's not here. Capo #5 - #6 fill their plates... 47. CAPO #5 That shipment of "H" was gonna square our books for six months. Shit. CAPO #6 We always bounce back. Besides, look at the bright side. Better the chinks than us, right. CAPO #5 I guess. Like the boss said... (Concezio impression) "This is war. There's gonna be casuwalities." They laugh. Suddenly, George enters with an overnight bag. The Capos are confused. Feigning a capitol mood... GEORGE Oh! Like the Roman Empire in here! Where's all the concubines and shit? George laughs. Nobody else does. He looks at the food table. We pull close on shrimp cocktail and cannoli. A look of dread. CAPO #3 George. What gives, here? GEORGE I need to see the Boss, right away. CAPO #4 Jimmy the Gofer! In hustles JIMMY THE GOFER (20's), skinny, weak looking. CAPO #2 (to Jimmy) Il cortina. Jimmy draws back a large curtain, exposing a steel panic room. Next to the vault door, is a video screen which displays the unamused face of Concezio. His voice booms over loudspeakers. CONCEZIO Get over here! GEORGE Whoa! George hustles over. He stands before the screen, confused. 48. GEORGE (CONT'D) Uh. Hey, Boss! I just came by to...! CONCEZIO Push the talk button, numb nuts. GEORGE Oh. (he does) Can you here me? Over. CONCEZIO I can hear you fine, Smokey and the Bandit. Now, what the fuck are you doing here? GEORGE Everything's in motion. All our guys are gunning for these Jesus Freaks. I figure, no need for me to be on the streets no more. So, which room do I take, eh? CONCEZIO You stupid motherfucker! I told you, you're on the streets till this is over! Now get the fuck outta here! A terrified George hustles for the door. CONCEZIO (CONT'D) And don't come back here till I tell you to, you fat fucking waste of space! George trips over his luggage. The Capos giggle. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- EVENING Cheap, depressing room. Crew Cut, in his underwear, repairs a broken rosary chain with string and puts it on.He pulls a shoe box from a shopping bag. The brand is "Hushes." Slogan: "Measure up to your dreams." He puts on one shoe. Crew Cut stands before the mirror going up and down on the one shoed foot, noting the height that has been added. The shoe has been cleverly constructed to disguise the higher heel. EXT. AUTO BODY -- EVENING We are out back, among scrap cars. George talks with JO JO RHAMA (38yrs). Jo Jo is built like a fire plug and clearly a hoodlum. 49. JO JO A priest. The sick fuck. GEORGE And he leaves all of us on the streets holding the bag while him and his are living it up at the Taj fuckin' Majal, not a care in the world. JO JO So, until the Saints get popped, we're all lambs to slaughter? GEORGE Yeah! And he don't care how many of us they wipe out in the meantime! JO JO What do you need me to do, Skipper? GEORGE Spread the word to all the brugliones. No bullshit. From your mouth to their ears. JO JO Everyone? North and South? That could get a little dicey. GEORGE Fuck their old grudges. All of them are in this, like it or not. Tell them everything we discussed. JO JO Even the panic room thing? GEORGE Sure. JO JO Good. That's a nice ice breaker. They'll get a kick outta that. I didn't even know those things were real. I thought they made that shit up for that movie? With that brawd and that kid? With those guys in that house? GEORGE Panic Room? 50. JO JO Naw, the other one. GEORGE Stop fuckin' around! This is serious shit, here! Tell 'em we meet tomorrow night. I'll call you with the location. EXT. AUTO BODY -- MOMENTS LATER POV of binoculars as we see George exit the front of the auto body. INT. HOTEL ROOM -- SAME TIME Crew Cut looks through his binoculars as he continues to bounce up and down on his special shoe. He smiles at the site of George. INT. BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, WAR ROOM -- NIGHT A table laden with clip boards, bagged evidence, reports, etc. Eunice finds a baggy with a tiny wooden bead in it. Greenly enters. GREENLY Tap's up and running on George's cell. EUNICE (holds up baggy) What's this? GREENLY Rosary bead. They found it pushed into the carpet near the victim. Father McKinney wasn't wearing a rosary so it's probably been there a while. Duffy comes in with a stack of papers. He heaves it down. DUFFY The results on all 864 prints found at the scene. All match churchgoers or clergy but one. The partial on the priest's watch is still unidentified. Eunice looks perplexed. Dolly enters, sipping coffee. EUNICE That's horse shit. Everyone gets printed nowadays. They're inking up snotgobblers in kindergarten, now. 51. DOLLY It's a brick wall anyway. We know Napoleon was wearing gloves. Lab got zilch off the chain and lock. The pennies came up clean too. EUNICE (FRUSTRATED) I'm gonna go powder my nose. Greenly stares at her ass as she exits. GREENLY Aw, man. Daddy would knock that out like Mike Tyson. Eunice suddenly re-enters the room with emergency. GREENLY (CONT'D) What?! I didn't say nothing! Eunice is absorbed a photo on the wall of the priest's hand. EUNICE McKinney wore his watch on his left hand. She turns and holds up the baggy. EUNICE (CONT'D) Where was this found exactly?! Duffy goes to a mock up of the victim's body position on the wall. DUFFY Right here, off his left elbow. Where are you going with this? EUNICE Dolly, get on the phone! Find out which wrist he wore his rosary on and if he was wearing it that night! Duffy, run that partial through DMV! David put it through INTERpol! Just get an I.D.! Now! Come on! Vamoose! They all dart out. With fire in her eyes, she looks closely at a picture of the priest's wrist watch on the wall. EUNICE (CONT'D) You took your glove off, didn'tcha Cowboy. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thang like that? 52. INT. FLASHBACK, CHURCH -- NIGHT Crew Cut finishes ritualizing the priest and looks deeply at his victim. He removes a glove and places his tiny hand next to McKinney's large one. Silent rage. Bare handed, Crew Cut snatches the priest's rosary from about his wrist, breaking the bead chain. INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MORNING The brothers and Romeo walk through the Mausoleum. They approach a grave slate with respect. The name reads, "David Della Rocco." There is a picture of him. Murphy narrows his eyes and leans in. MURPHY What the...did they use his mug shot? CONNOR What? No. MURPHY You remember how he told us he was embarrassed cuz the guy had to hold up all his long hair behind his head? CONNOR Aye. MURPHY Look at that. We see Murphy's finger denote a bad "airbrush" job. MURPHY (CONT'D) That's an arm. Connor looks close. CONNOR Oh...that's fuckin' harsh. The boys look at one another, then bust out laughing. MURPHY Y'er one of a kind, Roc. ROMEO So, am I as good as this guy, or what? CONNOR You, sir, are no David Della Rocco. A sound. Instantly, the boys turn and level weapons. There stands ROY (32yrs) thick glasses, geeky. He drops his flowers. 53. ROY Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Holy shit! (beat, recognition) HOLY SHIT! You're the Saints! I'm Roy, it's an honor. Huge fan! The boys reholster and look to one another. Disapproval. CONNOR We're developin' quite the cult following in the old neighborhood. The boys continue to chat with Roy as Romeo answers his cell. ROMEO Que pasa. It's Cesar. CESAR I got that info you wanted, mijo. INT. TANNING SALON -- NIGHT The Salon Manager approaches the back door with keys in hand. CESAR V.O. The place is Tropical Tan on Bunker Hill. It's where the fat fucking juedo gets his fake bake at. He's got a secret appointment. Once a week, never misses. Eight o'clock, tonight. The Manager lets George slip in. He steels into a tanning room.A Mexican towel boy has spied George. He picks up a phone... INT. MAUSOLEUM -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo snaps his phone shut and turns to the boys. ROMEO We got him. ROY (re: Romeo) Who's this, your new sidekick? (extends hand) Pleased to meet you. I'm Roy. ROMEO How would you like me to sidekick you in the ass, Roy? 54. CONNOR (GIGGLING) Let's go. The three walk for the door, leaving Roy behind. ROY I, I didn't mean to... ROMEO I'm sick of this shit! I've been breaking my balls, here and I get second banana billing! I... MURPHY I, I, I. There is no "I" in team, ya selfish prick. ROMEO Yeah?! Well, there's an "I" in "Fuck you! EXT. GRAVEYARD -- MOMENTS LATER Moody music as our trio walks through the gravestones. INT. "TROPICAL TAN," TANNING ROOM -- NIGHT The brothers and Romeo sneak up to the tanning bed. George sings a Sinatra tune as his fat stomach props the cover up like a half open clamshell. Suddenly, Murphy leaps up and sits on the cover. George is being crushed beneath his weight. Connor kneels. CONNOR Lovely voice. We'd like ya ta sing for us. What do ya say? George struggles and nods. Murphy hops off. George spills out, hot pink Speedos. On all fours and breathing heavy... GEORGE It's getting hard to be a fucking gentleman of leisure, here! The boys pull weapons and throw him against the wall in a Jesus Christ pose, pinning his hands with their guns. MURPHY We want the shooter you motherfuckers used on that priest. GEORGE I don't know who it is. 55. The boys cock back the hammers on their weapons. GEORGE (CONT'D) It's the truth! Concezio didn't tell no one what he was doing cuz he knew nobody would have o'kay'ed it! The shooter's an independent contractor! That's all I know! CONNOR Where's Yakavetta hidin'? GEORGE The Prudential! Fortieth floor! Jesus Christ! A ringing phone is heard. Romeo pulls George's Blackberry from nearby. He tosses it to Connor. Text message, "WHERE?" CONNOR You meeting someone tonight, George? GEORGE Yeah. The brugliones. MURPHY The what? GEORGE Yakavetta's racket chiefs. Street guys. (suddenly brightens) Your kind of guys. You could take a real bite outta crime here, huh? I could help you. CONNOR (re: phone) What's this? GEORGE Nobody forgot what you guys did to us last time. They're staying indoors. I give out the location an hour before. ROMEO My Uncle's place is closed tonight. I got the key. MURPHY It's down by the docks. Dead as a doornail at night. 56. CONNOR Yeah. You could set off fourth of July fireworks in dat place and nobody would hear. How's Mexican for you, George? GEORGE No difference to me. I think I just shit my Speedos, anyway. INT. EUNICE'S MERCEDES -- NIGHT Eunice drives. Her cell rings. She checks the I.D. then... EUNICE How do, David? Greenly is at his desk. Alternating coverage. GREENLY Hey, DMV came up dry on the partial. INTERpol's still working it. Should only be another couple of hours. EUNICE Lovely. Anything else? GREENLY Yeah. Nothing big. We just dumped a text message from George's cell. Just two words. "El Cava." It's a Mexican joint down by the docks. He sent it to his enforcer, Jo Jo Rhama. Guess gangsters gotta eat too, huh? EUNICE I think I'll drop in on their supper, see if I can shake them up a little. GREENLY You need a body guard? EUNICE No thank you, Mike Tyson. Bye now. GREENLY Bye. She hangs up and we are left with Greenly. Red handed. GREENLY (CONT'D) Oh, shit. 57. INT. "EL CAVA," KITCHEN -- LATER Close up, three shot. George, looking very uncomfortable, is flanked by the brothers. He is positioned to covertly view the restaurant from the kitchen. We see NORTHSIDE BRUGLIONEs #1 - #3 and SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONES #1 and #2 are at the bar. GEORGE Just two more to go. Uh...You guys are gonna let me go, right? MURPHY We'll see, won't we. George grimaces. Looks as if he'll cry. GEORGE Jesus, this is some embarrassing shit. We see the three men from behind. George is still in his Speedos, which now have a pronounced shit stain in back. INT. EL CAVA, BAR -- MOMENTS LATER Romeo, frazzled and in a busboy uniform, has got two blenders of margaritas going. The Brugliones mow through appetizers. Northside doesn't interact with Southside and there is an empty bar stool between them. N.S. Bruglione #1 slides Romeo a platter. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yo, spicaroo. More nachos and mas salsa, capisce? S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Hey and I need a refill there, pepe? ROMEO Si, muchachos. SOUTHSIDE BRUGLIONE #3 enters behind everyone. All suddenly turn, going for their guns. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Easy...Jesus. Everyone calms. S.S. Bruglione #3 gives a respectful nod to the Northside guys but sits with his own. 58. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER We do not see George just below frame as the boys are "working on him" in some way, putting on finishing touches. Romeo barrels in. ROMEO These dagos are getting antsy and I'm getting Spicaroo'd and Pepe'd. The kid's about to go Poncho fucking Villa out there! CONNOR Stick it out. Waitin' on one more. EXT. PARKING LOT -- MOMENTS LATER Jo Jo exits his Cadillac and walks toward El Cava. There is a "closed for private function" sign on the door. INT. JACKED UP SUV, NEARBY -- SAME TIME Crew Cut watches Jo Jo. He dials his cell. INT. GREENHOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER From behind we see the Old Man gardening. He answers a ringing phone, nearby. We do not see his face. INT. SUV -- MOMENTS LATER The following conversation is in Italian. CREW CUT He is not with them. OLD MAN Are you certain? CREW CUT Yes. It is only the sons. They have a Spaniard with them. They will slaughter everyone. OLD MAN Let them. If you kill the sons...the father will come. Crew Cut develops a sinister smile. INT. EL CAVA, KITCHEN -- MOMENTS LATER Connor watches Jo Jo greet the others. He turns to Romeo who is angrily cooking up a storm. 59. CONNOR The gang's all here. Without missing a beat, Romeo slams the hot pans into a dish sink. He stands fuming with his hands on his hips. ROMEO Gimme my fucking bee bee gun. MURPHY Naw. You've earned your stripes, Rome. Murphy throws him a .9 mm. Romeo smiles. INT. BAR -- MOMENTS LATER JO JO So....where's Gorgeous? Suddenly, George comes rolling out of the kitchen, unconscious and tied, face down, to a bus cart. There is writing on his back. Everyone pulls their weapons and moves toward. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 What the fuck is going on, here? S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 Where's that spic barkeep? Yo, Pepe! Where you at?! As the gangsters achieve the cart, the brothers creep over the bar in the b.g. Brugliones look down on George, painted on his back... S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 "Erin go brah?" What the hell does that mean? Connor and Murphy are standing 25 feet behind them. MURPHY It's Irish for "You're fucked." Hard core music as the Brugliones turn in horror. Everyone begins firing and we have slow motion gunplay to pulsating music. Several are chewed up as chests explode and they are blown into George on the cart, knocking it over. George comes to. Romeo appears and tears in, sending several more crashing into the salad bar. Murphy, while firing, dives back over the bar as bottles explode. Connor rapid fires as he dives into a booth. 60. The boys rise and lay out a second barrage, blasting the rest into buffet tables and a soda fountain. The music cuts. ROMEO Viva La Mejico, bitches! George bolts up. The bus cart is still tied to his fat belly. GEORGE Uh, I've seen the light! You guys have really turned me around on this! I'm like born again and shit! I swear! MURPHY (to Connor) What do ya think? Let him go? Connor slips one bullet in a revolver, spins the barrel and snaps it shut. He points it to George's forehead. George weeps in earnest. CONNOR We'll let God decide if you get a second chance. He slowly cocks the hammer back, pulls trigger, "click." CONNOR (CONT'D) Well, praise the Lord. The terrified ex-gangster staggers toward an exit while wriggling out of his bonds. Just as he touches the door. CONNOR (CONT'D) George? (George turns) All good boys go to heaven. George nods and exits. Romeo is confused as our trio gathers. Connor tosses the bullet he palmed to Romeo and he nods. MURPHY Now, that was, perhaps the finest example of spiritual guidance that I have ever had the good fortune ta witness. CONNOR Well, thank you very much. Mysterious ways. Mysterious ways. SLO-MO: Suddenly, Eunice bursts through the kitchen door and levels her weapon at the brothers and Romeo. Romeo levels back. 61. Eunice fires as the boys dive on Romeo. Crew Cut is revealed behind our trio, firing from the shadows. Eunice and Crew Cut exchange fire as the boys reload. Eunice hits Crew Cut in the side. The assassin has a moment of outrage but persists firing as he makes a hasty exit. In the confusion it is a few moments before anyone realizes he is gone. Silence falls. Presently, Romeo and the boys bolt up. Romeo goes for the door and the boys level at Eunice. CONNOR (CONT'D) Drop the gun! Drop it! She "places" her gun on a nearby table. EUNICE Easy fellas. I'm alone. The boys are before her as Romeo returns. ROMEO He's gone. CONNOR Who are ya? EUNICE My name is Eunice Bloom...and I'm your new guardian angel. A torch was passed to me by a mutual friend, gone but not forgotten. The boys reholster. She drops her arms. MURPHY We heard about Smecker. He was a good man. CONNOR Aye. You have our condolences. EUNICE And you have mine. They shake. CONNOR CONNOR MURPHY Murphy. 62. EUNICE Very well...Connor, Murphy. The boys nod. Romeo points to the front door. ROMEO Who the fuck was that guy?! EUNICE That, I suspect, was the shooter you boys have been looking for. The boys look at each other. Frustration. Anger. ROMEO Fucking...what the fuck?! Who the fuck is this brawd?! And what the fuck's going on, here?! EUNICE Let's speed this up before your new sidekick's got to dig any deeper into his impressive vocabulary. The boys chuckle. ROMEO Oh, no you didn't. EUNICE I am an FBI agent who is controlling this investigation from within, in order to ensure that you gentlemen never see the inside of a prison cell. I am conspiring to do this with three like minded individuals who have aided you in the past. Though I have yet to inform them of my agenda because, well, girl's gotta have her fun. MURPHY Dolly, Duffy and Greenly? EUNICE The very same. CONNOR How are the lads? EUNICE Two of them are scared. One's just horny. 63. MURPHY Bet'cha I can guess which one. EUNICE Bet'cha can but let's save it for group. Right now, we have a big problem. CONNOR What's that? Eunice denotes the bodies. EUNICE This...simply won't do. We made a deal. The big fish step in if your body count gets too high and... (re: carnage) ...you have been very naughty boys. Rockin' music overtakes as we DISSOLVE TO... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER With Eunice directing them, the boys and Romeo restage the crime scene. With a squeegee they move pools of blood across the linoleum floor and re-position bodies. The boys wrap Jo Jo's body in a tarp and put it in the Green Machine. Romeo creates blood splatter with a turkey baster. Romeo and the brothers place the guns they used in the hands of dead gangsters as Eunice drops bullet casings in carefully chosen spots. Romeo and the brothers leave with the utensils used to rig the scene. The music fades, leaving Eunice in the center of... INT. EL CAVA -- LATER Silence. She removes her ear plugs and the sound returns. We are on a very different looking scene. CSI, forensics, even Dolly and Duffy wait with baited breath. Greenly is not present. EUNICE O'kay. Here's how it all went down. Dolly and Duffy open their notepads. INT. FLASHBACK, EL CAVA -- NEVER Northside stands facing off with the Southside. All brugliones are frozen in place. Eunice saunters down the middle. Cool music... 64. EUNICE A secret gathering of the Brugliones. The topic of discussion? Weak leadership and betrayal. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Yakavetta's hiding from these Jesus Freaks and making us look like pussies. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 And he's hanging all of us out to dry to boot. A pause as they size each other up. N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 All right. I'll be the first to say it. EUNICE The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, even with all their old vendettas... N.S. BRUGLIONE #2 ...I say fuck the Yakavettas. EUNICE And there it is. Guess what comes next. Eunice points to men as he moves down the line. EUNICE (CONT'D) Red Rover. Red Rover. S.S. BRUGLIONE #2 We're taking over. EUNICE Ah. Easier uttered than accomplished. The North End and the South End may as well be the Hetfields and the McCoys. These fellas...they just don't get on. All the Brugliones yell over one another. N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Fuck you! The North End built that racket from the ground up! 65. S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 South End's been carrying your fucking asses for years! N.S. BRUGLIONE #3 15 percent?! In your dreams, asshole! S.S. BRUGLIONE #3 Whoa! Just went up to twenty, fuck stick! S.S. Brulione #1 flashes a gun in his waist band. S.S. BRUGLIONE #1 You want some of this, you mutt?! N.S. Bruglione #1 pulls his weapon. N.S. BRUGLIONE #1 Let's see what you got! They all pull and level at one another. They freeze in place and all yelling ceases as Eunice walks down the middle. EUNICE Oh, the cliche. A Mexican stand off in a Mexican restaurant. Eunice looks deeply at all the men as she turns a slow circle. EUNICE (CONT'D) They cut each other to pieces...and nobody walked away. Who knows who fired first. Could have been any one of them. But somebody let it loose. (pointing to men) And duck, duck, duck... Eunice stands before S.S. Brulione #2. EUNICE (CONT'D) Goose. BOOM! They all start shooting as Eunice stands in the crossfire unaffected. Men fall dead and we see the relevance of each thing Eunice did to doctor the scene. WHIP PAN... INT. BACK TO PRESENT, EL CAVA -- LATER EUNICE Yakavetta's lost control of the streets. (MORE) 66. EUNICE (CONT'D) They're fighting over his throne. This was not the work of the Saints. Heads nod agreement. Greenly enters and flashes a file to Eunice. EXT. EL CAVA -- MOMENTS LATER Press clamors for the story in the b.g. Eunice and the detectives are in a private spot. Greenly excitedly hands her the file. GREENLY INTERpol came through. Eunice opens the file. Picture of Crew Cut. Dolly and Duffy read over her shoulder. GREENLY (CONT'D) You were right. Five foot five. Gotta be the shooter. Eunice smiles and speaks to Crew Cut's photo... EUNICE Are you ready for your fifteen minutes, Sweetheart? GREENLY That ain't all. Short stuff's work visa was signed by a sponsor that doesn't exist and look at the date. Two months after Nine Eleven. EUNICE Someone maneuvered it through the system using false information during the highest alert in U.S. history. DOLLY Yakavetta's just a gangster. He ain't got the juice to pull that off. EUNICE You're darn tootin' he don't. GREENLY INS red flagged it like a motherfucker. It's a shit storm. EUNICE Something stanks like manure. The cops nod. Eunice turns and starts to move away... 67. EUNICE (CONT'D) We got someplace to be! Let's go! INT. MERCEDES -- MOMENTS LATER Eunice drives. The Detectives look nervous. DOLLY What is this? Where are we going? EUNICE It's time to revisit the scene of the crime. EXT. MCGINTY'S PUB -- LATER Eunice pulls to a stop. At the sight of the place, the cops turn white as a ghost. All exit the vehicle and walk toward. GREENLY It's after hours. I mean, if you wanted a drink then... EUNICE 37 bodies later and we're finally back where it all began. Y'ever heard of the southern expression, "We have an elephant in the living room?" She knocks on the door. The cops are mortified. EUNICE (CONT'D) Hope you fellas brought some peanuts. Doc opens it and lets them all into... INT. MCGINTY'S -- CONTINUOUS Connor and Murphy are seated at the bar. They turn. The cops are dumbfounded. Duffy turns to Eunice, mystified. DUFFY You knew all along. CONNOR What? Ya don't call. Ya don't write. Dolly actually drops to his knees in abject relief. Greenly laughs and plants a kiss on Eunice's cheek. Doc pours shots. Eunice smiles as all her guys hug and make merry. DISSOLVE TO... 68. INT. MCGINTY'S -- LATER Doc smiles from the bar as the group raises for a toast. MURPHY I'm glad we got the band back together... (re: Romeo) ...even though our new bass player's kind of a retard. They all laugh, cheers and drink. Conversations buzz all around. Eunice chats with the boys as she sips a cosmo. CONNOR So, where'd you learn ta shoot like that? EUNICE My Daddy was an old six gun shooter. A real cowboy. MURPHY Guess that makes you a cowgirl, eh? Thanks. Saved our asses. EUNICE Don't mention it. Now, we have a little business to go over before you celebrate in earnest. She hands the INTERpol file to the brothers. CONNOR This is the guy? EUNICE That's the guy. He's a Sicilian immigrant, name of Ottilio Panza. MURPHY Five, five? He's short bastard isn't he? EUNICE Yes...and well put. He'll be front page news in the morning but we have to assume Yakavetta already knows we've ID'd his guy. We can't give him time to 'Plan B' us. 69. MURPHY We're hittin' him tomorrow night. Dat soon enough? Everyone else cuts their conversation and listens. EUNICE Should be. Where's it gonna happen? CONNOR The Pru. DOLLY The Prudential Building? What are you, cracked? GREENLY Why don't you just do it on center ice at a fucking Bruin's game?! CONNOR Dat's where the man is so dat's where we're goin'. No guts no glory, Green Beans. MURPHY In fact, we could use a few extra hands...that is if you fellas can still get yer Irish on. GREENLY Hey, I got balls for days, pally. I'm a fucking sack-o-matic. They all chuckle. DOLLY AND DUFFY We're in. EUNICE (to all) Well, you boys have fun. Connor, Murphy? Escort a lady to the door? They each offer an arm and move her toward the door. CONNOR Y'sure you don't wanna hear the plan? I'm not tryin' ta brag or nothin' but this one's a real Picasso. MURPHY Aw, Jesus. 70. CONNOR Hey. EUNICE School night. Got some homework to do. Besides, I'd like to critique your masterpiece with a fresh eye. She stops at the door and turns. Her face shows concern. MURPHY What is it? EUNICE Something ain't right with this whole thing. Panza knew you were in there tonight and he just let it happen. Didn't lift a finger. I mean, if he's working for Yakavetta, why would he stand by and just watch all his guys get taken out? MURPHY That is...interestin'. CONNOR You think maybe we got another fox in the hen house here? EUNICE Starting ta look that way. Somebody pushed that visa through. Could have ourselves a gen-u-ine 'Ghost in the Darkness,' here. INT. GREENHOUSE -- LATER Crew Cut lies on the shop table. He's lost a lot of blood and is in shock. Using gardening utensils, the Old Man removes the bullet. We see his face for the first time. Unremarkable. In Italian... CREW CUT They still live...What if he does not come? What if... OLD MAN Shhhhh. He will come. INT. BASEMENT -- NIGHT The Irish GUN DEALER (30's) from the first film leads the brothers and Romeo through a basement to a large, steel vault door. 71. GUN DEALER Expanded my operation, since I saw ya last. Word got out who may or may not have outfitted ya. Turns out ya got quite the underground followin'. He swings the vault open. Romeo and the boys stand in angelic light at the gates of Heaven. Cheesy music as they enter... INT. VAULT -- CONTINUOUS Expanded indeed. Gleaming weapons everywhere. Sheer awe. Something catches Romeo's eye and he moves off. To boys... GUN DEALER Please, gentlemen. Preferred customers select from my private reserve. He withdraws two Mahogany boxes. GUN DEALER (CONT'D) If I may make a suggestion. He lifts the lids. In each box is a pair of Desert Eagle .50 cal "Black Outs". The triangular barrels have been fitted with matching triangular silencers. The boys are mystified. MURPHY I feel like that kid who found the gold ticket in the candy bar in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." GUN DEALER Charlie. CONNOR Yeah...Charlie. (picks up gun) And I want an Oompa Loompa

priority

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