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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

overpowering

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

aggravate

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

with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

luck

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

with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

rigidly

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

comer

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

with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

dreadful

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

with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

liking

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

with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

did

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

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with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

confidant

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

with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills." Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled. "What lovely eyes!" whispered Fanny. "Yes, that's little Jane," returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly "Don't get tired, Jenny," "we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her." "I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day," said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her. "But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor." "How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?" "But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls." "My good Polly!" and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly. "You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more," said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. "Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part." "Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long," said Fanny. "I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind," answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked. "Come in!" said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools. "Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire." As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk. "You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want," said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe. "How do you get on?" asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing. "Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?" said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue. "How beautiful it is!" cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect. "What does it mean to you?" asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes. "I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her. Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?" "Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny. "No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca. "I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh. "Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers. "No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca, decidedly. "She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words. "Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?" Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in her arms, Becky." "Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse." "Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them. "Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?" and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook. "Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!" cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy. "Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it," exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker. "Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?" It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act. "Who is that?" she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner. "Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend," cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then. "It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel," said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns. "We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese," said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed. "Wait a bit, and I'll add my share," cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by. "You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do," said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two. "Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk," added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party. "Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company," said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table. "Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins," said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment. Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life. Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. "Men must respect such girls as these," she thought; "yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest. "How does the new book come on?" asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of "Cranford." "Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water," and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan. "It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good," said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one. "When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?" asked Polly, eager for news of all. "Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place," answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile. "The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see," whispered Polly to Fan. "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." "By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself." As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, "I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be." "I wish I could!" And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was. For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay. The city bells rung one, and Polly started up. "I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two." "I thought this was a holiday," said Fanny. "So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan." "I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do," said Kate. "Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am," cried Polly, amazed. "I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did." "I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know," and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming. Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most "gushing" words. "I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may." "Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you." "I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how," said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice. "We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says," answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another. CHAPTER XIV. NIPPED IN THE BUD ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: "I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun." Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; "Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!" Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her. "Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!" And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon. "It don't do to think of her, and I won't!" said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. "What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!" And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, "Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?" And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. "It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!" The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes. When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind. "I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this." Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: "Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear." Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; "If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'" What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart? On Monday, Polly began the "delicate and dangerous task." Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off. Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he

years

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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house

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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fishes

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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does

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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How many times the word 'at' appears in the text?

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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pudding

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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sallies

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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office

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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hang

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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rises

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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look

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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eating

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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friend

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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gunpowder

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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rice

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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wo

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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satisfy

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

witness and go off to Brighton with another lady. LESBIA. Thats what you call providing for everything! [She goes to the middle of the table on the garden side and sits down]. LEO. Do make him see there are no worms before he knocks you down, Edith. Wheres Rejjy? REGINALD [coming in from the study] Here. Whats the matter? LEO [springing up and flouncing round to him] Whats the matter! You may well ask. While Edie and Cecil were at the insurance office I took a taxy and went off to your lodgings; and a nice mess I found everything in. Your clothes are in a disgraceful state. Your liver pad has been made into a kettle-holder. Youre no more fit to be left to yourself than a one-year old baby. REGINALD. Oh, I cant be bothered looking after things like that. I'm all right. LEO. Youre not: youre a disgrace. You never consider that youre a disgrace to me: you think only of yourself. You must come home with me and be taken proper care of: my conscience will not allow me to let you live like a pig. [She arranges his necktie]. You must stay with me until I marry St John; and then we can adopt you or something. REGINALD [breaking loose from her and stumping off past Hotchkiss towards the hearth] No, I'm dashed if I'll be adopted by St John. You can adopt him if you like. HOTCHKISS [rising] I suggest that that would really be the better plan, Leo. Ive a confession to make to you. I'm not the man you took me for. Your objection to Rejjy was that he had low tastes. REGINALD [turning] Was it? by George! LEO. I said slovenly habits. I never thought he had really low tastes until I saw that woman in court. How he could have chosen such a creature and let her write to him after-- REGINALD. Is this fair? I never-- HOTCHKISS. Of course you didnt, Rejjy. Dont be silly, Leo. It's I who really have low tastes. LEO. You! HOTCHKISS. Ive fallen in love with a coal merchant's wife. I adore her. I would rather have one of her boot-laces than a lock of your hair. [He folds his arms and stands like a rock]. REGINALD. You damned scoundrel, how dare you throw my wife over like that before my face? [He seems on the point of assaulting Hotchkiss when Leo gets between them and draws Reginald away towards the study door]. LEO. Dont take any notice of him, Rejjy. Go at once and get that odious decree demolished or annulled or whatever it is. Tell Sir Gorell Barnes that I have changed my mind. [To Hotchkiss] I might have known that you were too clever to be really a gentleman. [She takes Reginald away to the oak chest and seats him there. He chuckles. Hotchkiss resumes his seat, brooding]. THE BISHOP. All the problems appear to be solving themselves. LESBIA. Except mine. THE GENERAL. But, my dear Lesbia, you see what has happened here to-day. [Coming a little nearer and bending his face towards hers] Now I put it to you, does it not show you the folly of not marrying? LESBIA. No: I cant say it does. And [rising] you have been smoking again. THE GENERAL. You drive me to it, Lesbia. I cant help it. LESBIA [standing behind her chair with her hands on the back of it and looking radiant] Well, I wont scold you to-day. I feel in particularly good humor just now. TIE GENERAL. May I ask why, Lesbia? LESBIA. [drawing a large breath] To think that after all the dangers of the morning I am still unmarried! still independent! still my own mistress! still a glorious strong-minded old maid of old England! Soames silently springs up and makes a long stretch from his end of the table to shake her hand across it. THE GENERAL. Do you find any real happiness in being your own mistress? Would it not be more generous--would you not be happier as some one else's mistress-- LESBIA. Boxer! THE GENERAL [rising, horrified] No, no, you must know, my dear Lesbia, that I was not using the word in its improper sense. I am sometimes unfortunate in my choice of expressions; but you know what I mean. I feel sure you would be happier as my wife. LESBIA. I daresay I should, in a frowsy sort of way. But I prefer my dignity and my independence. I'm afraid I think this rage for happiness rather vulgar. THE GENERAL. Oh, very well, Lesbia. I shall not ask you again. [He sits down huffily]. LESBIA. You will, Boxer; but it will be no use. [She also sits down again and puts her hand almost affectionately on his]. Some day I hope to make a friend of you; and then we shall get on very nicely. THE GENERAL [starting up again] Ha! I think you are hard, Lesbia. I shall make a fool of myself if I remain here. Alice: I shall go into the garden for a while. COLLINS [appearing in the tower] I think everything is in order now, maam. THE GENERAL [going to him] Oh, by the way, could you oblige me [the rest of the sentence is lost in a whisper]. COLLINS. Certainly, General. [He takes out a tobacco pouch and hands it to the General, who takes it and goes into the garden]. LESBIA. I dont believe theres a man in England who really and truly loves his wife as much as he loves his pipe. THE BISHOP. By the way, what has happened to the wedding party? SYKES. I dont know. There wasnt a soul in the church when we were married except the pew opener and the curate who did the job. EDITH. They had all gone home. MRS BRIDGENORTH. But the bridesmaids? COLLINS. Me and the beadle have been all over the place in a couple of taxies, maam; and weve collected them all. They were a good deal disappointed on account of their dresses, and thought it rather irregular; but theyve agreed to come to the breakfast. The truth is, theyre wild with curiosity to know how it all happened. The organist held on until the organ was nigh worn out, and himself worse than the organ. He asked me particularly to tell you, my lord, that he held back Mendelssohn till the very last; but when that was gone he thought he might as well go too. So he played God Save The King and cleared out the church. He's coming to the breakfast to explain. LEO. Please remember, Collins, that there is no truth whatever in the rumor that I am separated from my husband, or that there is, or ever has been, anything between me and Mr Hotchkiss. COLLINS. Bless you, maam! one could always see that. [To Mrs Bridgenorth] Will you receive here or in the hall, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the hall. Alfred: you and Boxer must go there and be ready to keep the first arrivals talking till we come. We have to dress Edith. Come, Lesbia: come, Leo: we must all help. Now, Edith. [Lesbia, Leo, and Edith go out through the tower]. Collins: we shall want you when Miss Edith's dressed to look over her veil and things and see that theyre all right. COLLINS. Yes, maam. Anything you would like mentioned about Miss Lesbia, maam? MRS BRIDGENORTH. No. She wont have the General. I think you may take that as final. COLLINS. What a pity, maam! A fine lady wasted, maam. [They shake their heads sadly; and Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower]. THE BISHOP. I'm going to the hall, Collins, to receive. Rejjy: go and tell Boxer; and come both of you to help with the small talk. Come, Cecil. [He goes out through the tower, followed by Sykes]. REGINALD [to Hotchkiss] Youve always talked a precious lot about behaving like a gentleman. Well, if you think youve behaved like a gentleman to Leo, youre mistaken. And I shall have to take her part, remember that. HOTCHKISS. I understand. Your doors are closed to me. REGINALD [quickly] Oh no. Dont be hasty. I think I should like you to drop in after a while, you know. She gets so cross and upset when theres nobody to liven up the house a bit. HOTCHKISS. I'll do my best. REGINALD [relieved] Righto. You wont mind, old chap, do you? HOTCHKISS. It's Fate. Ive touched coal; and my hands are black; but theyre clean. So long, Rejjy. [They shake hands; and Reginald goes into the garden to collect Boxer]. COLLINS. Excuse me, sir; but do you stay to breakfast? Your name is on one of the covers; and I should like to change it if youre not remaining. HOTCHKISS. How do I know? Is my destiny any longer in my own hands? Go: ask SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED. COLLINS [awestruck] Has Mrs George taken a fancy to you, sir? HOTCHKISS. Would she had! Worse, man, worse: Ive taken a fancy to Mrs George. COLLINS. Dont despair, sir: if George likes your conversation youll find their house a very pleasant one--livelier than Mr Reginald's was, I daresay. HOTCHKISS [calling] Polly. COLLINS [promptly] Oh, if it's come to Polly already, sir, I should say you were all right. Mrs George appears at the door of the study. HOTCHKISS. Your brother-in-law wishes to know whether I'm to stay for the wedding breakfast. Tell him. MRS GEORGE. He stays, Bill, if he chooses to behave himself. HOTCHKISS [to Collins] May I, as a friend of the family, have the privilege of calling you Bill? COLLINS. With pleasure, sir, I'm sure, sir. HOTCHKISS. My own pet name in the bosom of my family is Sonny. MRS GEORGE. Why didnt you tell me that before? Sonny is just the name I wanted for you. [She pats his cheek familiarly; he rises abruptly and goes to the hearth, where he throws himself moodily into the railed chair] Bill: I'm not going into the hall until there are enough people there to make a proper little court for me. Send the Beadle for me when you think it looks good enough. COLLINS. Right, maam. [He goes out through the tower]. Mrs George left alone with Hotchkiss and Soames, suddenly puts her hands on Soames's shoulders and bends over him. MRS GEORGE. The Bishop said I was to tempt you, Anthony. SOAMES [without looking round] Woman: go away. MRS GEORGE. Anthony: "When other lips and other hearts Their tale of love shall tell HOTCHKISS [sardonically] In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. MRS GEORGE. Though hollow hearts may wear a mask, Twould break your own to see In such a moment I but ask That youll remember me." And you will, Anthony. I shall put my spell on you. SOAMES. Do you think that a man who has sung the Magnificat and adored the Queen of Heaven has any ears for such trash as that or any eyes for such trash as you--saving your poor little soul's presence. Go home to your duties, woman. MRS GEORGE [highly approving his fortitude] Anthony: I adopt you as my father. Thats the talk! Give me a man whose whole life doesnt hang on some scrubby woman in the next street; and I'll never let him go [she slaps him heartily on the back]. SOAMES. Thats enough. You have another man to talk to. I'm busy. MRS GEORGE [leaving Soames and going a step or two nearer Hotchkiss] Why arnt you like him, Sonny? Why do you hang on to a scrubby woman in the next street? HOTCHKISS [thoughtfully] I must apologize to Billiter. MRS GEORGE. Who is Billiter? HOTCHKISS. A man who eats rice pudding with a spoon. Ive been eating rice pudding with a spoon ever since I saw you first.[He rises]. We all eat our rice pudding with a spoon, dont we, Soames? SOAMES. We are members of one another. There is no need to refer to me. In the first place, I'm busy: in the second, youll find it all in the Church Catechism, which contains most of the new discoveries with which the age is bursting. Of course you should apologize to Billiter. He is your equal. He will go to the same heaven if he behaves himself and to the same hell if he doesnt. MRS GEORGE [sitting down] And so will my husband the coal merchant. HOTCHKISS. If I were your husband's superior here I should be his superior in heaven or hell: equality lies deeper than that. The coal merchant and I are in love with the same woman. That settles the question for me for ever. [He prowls across the kitchen to the garden door, deep in thought]. SOAMES. Psha! MRS GEORGE. You dont believe in women, do you, Anthony? He might as well say that he and George both like fried fish. HOTCHKISS. I do not like fried fish. Dont be low, Polly. SOAMES. Woman: do not presume to accuse me of unbelief. And do you, Hotchkiss, not despise this woman's soul because she speaks of fried fish. Some of the victims of the Miraculous Draught of Fishes were fried. And I eat fried fish every Friday and like it. You are as ingrained a snob as ever. HOTCHKISS [impatiently] My dear Anthony: I find you merely ridiculous as a preacher, because you keep referring me to places and documents and alleged occurrences in which, as a matter of fact, I dont believe. I dont believe in anything but my own will and my own pride and honor. Your fishes and your catechisms and all the rest of it make a charming poem which you call your faith. It fits you to perfection; but it doesnt fit me. I happen, like Napoleon, to prefer Mohammedanism. [Mrs George, associating Mohammedanism with polygamy, looks at him with quick suspicion]. I believe the whole British Empire will adopt a reformed Mohammedanism before the end of the century. The character of Mahomet is congenial to me. I admire him, and share his views of life to a considerable extent. That beats you, you see, Soames. Religion is a great force--the only real motive force in the world; but what you fellows dont understand is that you must get at a man through his own religion and not through yours. Instead of facing that fact, you persist in trying to convert all men to your own little sect, so that you can use it against them afterwards. You are all missionaries and proselytizers trying to uproot the native religion from your neighbor's flowerbeds and plant your own in its place. You would rather let a child perish in ignorance than have it taught by a rival sectary. You can talk to me of the quintessential equality of coal merchants and British officers; and yet you cant see the quintessential equality of all the religions. Who are you, anyhow, that you should know better than Mahomet or Confucius or any of the other Johnnies who have been on this job since the world existed? MRS GEORGE [admiring his eloquence] George will like you, Sonny. You should hear him talking about the Church. SOAMES. Very well, then: go to your doom, both of you. There is only one religion for me: that which my soul knows to be true; but even irreligion has one tenet; and that is the sacredness of marriage. You two are on the verge of deadly sin. Do you deny that? HOTCHKISS. You forget, Anthony: the marriage itself is the deadly sin according to you. SOAMES. The question is not now what I believe, but what you believe. Take the vows with me; and give up that woman if you have the strength and the light. But if you are still in the grip of this world, at least respect its institutions. Do you believe in marriage or do you not? HOTCHKISS. My soul is utterly free from any such superstition. I solemnly declare that between this woman, as you impolitely call her, and me, I see no barrier that my conscience bids me respect. I loathe the whole marriage morality of the middle classes with all my instincts. If I were an eighteenth century marquis I could feel no more free with regard to a Parisian citizen's wife than I do with regard to Polly. I despise all this domestic purity business as the lowest depth of narrow, selfish, sensual, wife- grabbing vulgarity. MRS GEORGE [rising promptly] Oh, indeed. Then youre not coming home with me, young man. I'm sorry; for its refreshing to have met once in my life a man who wasnt frightened by my wedding ring; but I'm looking out for a friend and not for a French marquis; so youre not coming home with me. HOTCHKISS [inexorably] Yes, I am. MRS GEORGE. No. HOTCHKISS. Yes. Think again. You know your set pretty well, I suppose, your petty tradesmen's set. You know all its scandals and hypocrisies, its jealousies and squabbles, its hundred of divorce cases that never come into court, as well as its tens that do. MRS GEORGE. We're not angels. I know a few scandals; but most of us are too dull to be anything but good. HOTCHKISS. Then you must have noticed that just an all murderers, judging by their edifying remarks on the scaffold, seem to be devout Christians, so all Christians, both male and female, are invariably people over-flowing with domestic sentimentality and professions of respect for the conventions they violate in secret. MRS GEORGE. Well, you dont expect them to give themselves away, do you? HOTCHKISS. They are people of sentiment, not of honor. Now, I'm not a man of sentiment, but a man of honor. I know well what will happen to me when once I cross the threshold of your husband's house and break bread with him. This marriage bond which I despise will bind me as it never seems to bind the people who believe in it, and whose chief amusement it is to go to the theatres where it is laughed at. Soames: youre a Communist, arnt you? SOAMES. I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist. HOTCHKISS. And you believe that many of our landed estates were stolen from the Church by Henry the eighth? SOAMES. I do not merely believe that: I know it as a lawyer. HOTCHKISS. Would you steal a turnip from one of the landlords of those stolen lands? SOAMES [fencing with the question] They have no right to their lands. HOTCHKISS. Thats not what I ask you. Would you steal a turnip from one of the fields they have no right to? SOAMES. I do not like turnips. HOTCHKISS. As you are a lawyer, answer me. SOAMES. I admit that I should probably not do so. I should perhaps be wrong not to steal the turnip: I cant defend my reluctance to do so; but I think I should not do so. I know I should not do so. HOTCHKISS. Neither shall I be able to steal George's wife. I have stretched out my hand for that forbidden fruit before; and I know that my hand will always come back empty. To disbelieve in marriage is easy: to love a married woman is easy; but to betray a comrade, to be disloyal to a host, to break the covenant of bread and salt, is impossible. You may take me home with you, Polly: you have nothing to fear. MRS GEORGE. And nothing to hope? HOTCHKISS. Since you put it in that more than kind way, Polly, absolutely nothing. MRS GEORGE. Hm! Like most men, you think you know everything a woman wants, dont you? But the thing one wants most has nothing to do with marriage at all. Perhaps Anthony here has a glimmering of it. Eh, Anthony? SOAMES. Christian fellowship? MRS GEORGE. You call it that, do you? SOAMES. What do you call it? COLLINS [appearing in the tower with the Beadle]. Now, Polly, the hall's full; and theyre waiting for you. THE BEADLE. Make way there, gentlemen, please. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress. If you please, my lords and gentlemen. By your leave, ladies and gentlemen: way for the Mayoress. Mrs George takes Hotchkiss's arm, and goes out, preceded by the Beadle. Soames resumes his writing tranquilly. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GETTING MARRIED *** ***** This file should be named 5604.txt or 5604.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/5604/ Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed Proofreaders Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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victims

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

den

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

devil

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

procedure

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

morning

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

likes

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

men

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

soul

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

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woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

account

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

nature

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

forty

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

poor

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

politically

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

pal

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

sack

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

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woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

incendiary

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

didst

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

peasant

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

woman. TARLETON. She'd have done that anyhow, my lad. We all grow old. Look at me! _[Seeing that the man is embarrassed by his pistol in fumbling for the photographs with his left hand in his breast pocket]_ Let me hold the gun for you. THE MAN. _[retreating to the worktable]_ Stand back. Do you take me for a fool? TARLETON. Well, youre a little upset, naturally. It does you credit. THE MAN. Look here, upon this picture and on this. _[He holds out the two photographs like a hand at cards, and points to them with the pistol]._ TARLETON. Good. Read Shakespear: he has a word for every occasion. _[He takes the photographs, one in each hand, and looks from one to the other, pleased and interested, but without any sign of recognition]_ What a pretty girl! Very pretty. I can imagine myself falling in love with her when I was your age. I wasnt a bad-looking young fellow myself in those days. _[Looking at the other]_ Curious that we should both have gone the same way. THE MAN. You and she the same way! What do you mean? TARLETON. Both got stout, I mean. THE MAN. Would you have had her deny herself food? TARLETON. No: it wouldnt have been any use. It's constitutional. No matter how little you eat you put on flesh if youre made that way. _[He resumes his study of the earlier photograph]._ THE MAN. Is that all the feeling that rises in you at the sight of the face you once knew so well? TARLETON. _[too much absorbed in the portrait to heed him]_ Funny that I cant remember! Let this be a lesson to you, young man. I could go into court tomorrow and swear I never saw that face before in my life if it wasnt for that brooch _[pointing to the photograph]._ Have you got that brooch, by the way? _[The man again resorts to his breast pocket]._ You seem to carry the whole family property in that pocket. THE MAN. _[producing a brooch]_ Here it is to prove my bona fides. TARLETON. _[pensively putting the photographs on the table and taking the brooch]_ I bought that brooch in Cheapside from a man with a yellow wig and a cast in his left eye. Ive never set eyes on him from that day to this. And yet I remember that man; and I cant remember your mother. THE MAN. Monster! Without conscience! without even memory! You left her to her shame-- TARLETON. _[throwing the brooch on the table and rising pepperily]_ Come, come, young man! none of that. Respect the romance of your mother's youth. Dont you start throwing stones at her. I dont recall her features just at this moment; but Ive no doubt she was kind to me and we were happy together. If you have a word to say against her, take yourself out of my house and say it elsewhere. THE MAN. What sort of a joker are you? Are you trying to put me in the wrong, when you have to answer to me for a crime that would make every honest man spit at you as you passed in the street if I were to make it known? TARLETON. You read a good deal, dont you? THE MAN. What if I do? What has that to do with your infamy and my mother's doom? TARLETON. There, you see! Doom! Thats not good sense; but it's literature. Now it happens that I'm a tremendous reader: always was. When I was your age I read books of that sort by the bushel: the Doom sort, you know. It's odd, isnt it, that you and I should be like one another in that respect? Can you account for it in any way? THE MAN. No. What are you driving at? TARLETON. Well, do you know who your father was? THE MAN. I see what you mean now. You dare set up to be my father. Thank heaven Ive not a drop of your vile blood in my veins. TARLETON. _[sitting down again with a shrug]_ Well, if you wont be civil, theres no pleasure in talking to you, is there? What do you want? Money? THE MAN. How dare you insult me? TARLETON. Well, what do you want? THE MAN. Justice. TARLETON. Youre quite sure thats all? THE MAN. It's enough for me. TARLETON. A modest sort of demand, isnt it? Nobody ever had it since the world began, fortunately for themselves; but you must have it, must you? Well, youve come to the wrong shop for it: youll get no justice here: we dont keep it. Human nature is what we stock. THE MAN. Human nature! Debauchery! gluttony! selfishness! robbery of the poor! Is that what you call human nature? TARLETON. No: thats what you call it. Come, my lad! Whats the matter with you? You dont look starved; and youve a decent suit of clothes. THE MAN. Forty-two shillings. TARLETON. They can do you a very decent suit for forty-two shillings. Have you paid for it? THE MAN. Do you take me for a thief? And do you suppose I can get credit like you? TARLETON. Then you were able to lay your hand on forty-two shillings. Judging from your conversational style, I should think you must spend at least a shilling a week on romantic literature. THE MAN. Where would I get a shilling a week to spend on books when I can hardly keep myself decent? I get books at the Free Library. TARLETON _[springing to his feet]_ What!!! THE MAN. _[recoiling before his vehemence]_ The Free Library. Theres no harm in that. TARLETON. Ingrate! I supply you with free books; and the use you make of them is to persuade yourself that it's a fine thing to shoot me. _[He throws himself doggedly back into his chair]._ I'll never give another penny to a Free Library. THE MAN. Youll never give another penny to anything. This is the end: for you and me. TARLETON. Pooh! Come, come, man! talk business. Whats wrong? Are you out of employment? THE MAN. No. This is my Saturday afternoon. Dont flatter yourself that I'm a loafer or a criminal. I'm a cashier; and I defy you to say that my cash has ever been a farthing wrong. Ive a right to call you to account because my hands are clean. TARLETON. Well, call away. What have I to account for? Had you a hard time with your mother? Why didnt she ask me for money? THE MAN. She'd have died first. Besides, who wanted your money? Do you suppose we lived in the gutter? My father maynt have been in as large a way as you; but he was better connected; and his shop was as respectable as yours. TARLETON. I suppose your mother brought him a little capital. THE MAN. I dont know. Whats that got to do with you? TARLETON. Well, you say she and I knew one another and parted. She must have had something off me then, you know. One doesnt get out of these things for nothing. Hang it, young man: do you suppose Ive no heart? Of course she had her due; and she found a husband with it, and set him up in business with it, and brought you up respectably; so what the devil have you to complain of? THE MAN. Are women to be ruined with impunity? TARLETON. I havnt ruined any woman that I'm aware of. Ive been the making of you and your mother. THE MAN. Oh, I'm a fool to listen to you and argue with you. I came here to kill you and then kill myself. TARLETON. Begin with yourself, if you dont mind. Ive a good deal of business to do still before I die. Havnt you? THE MAN. No. Thats just it: Ive no business to do. Do you know what my life is? I spend my days from nine to six--nine hours of daylight and fresh air--in a stuffy little den counting another man's money. Ive an intellect: a mind and a brain and a soul; and the use he makes of them is to fix them on his tuppences and his eighteenpences and his two pound seventeen and tenpences and see how much they come to at the end of the day and take care that no one steals them. I enter and enter, and add and add, and take money and give change, and fill cheques and stamp receipts; and not a penny of that money is my own: not one of those transactions has the smallest interest for me or anyone else in the world but him; and even he couldnt stand it if he had to do it all himself. And I'm envied: aye, envied for the variety and liveliness of my job, by the poor devil of a bookkeeper that has to copy all my entries over again. Fifty thousand entries a year that poor wretch makes; and not ten out of the fifty thousand ever has to be referred to again; and when all the figures are counted up and the balance sheet made out, the boss isnt a penny the richer than he'd be if bookkeeping had never been invented. Of all the damnable waste of human life that ever was invented, clerking is the very worst. TARLETON. Why not join the territorials? THE MAN. Because I shouldnt be let. He hasnt even the sense to see that it would pay him to get some cheap soldiering out of me. How can a man tied to a desk from nine to six be anything--be even a man, let alone a soldier? But I'll teach him and you a lesson. Ive had enough of living a dog's life and despising myself for it. Ive had enough of being talked down to by hogs like you, and wearing my life out for a salary that wouldnt keep you in cigars. Youll never believe that a clerk's a man until one of us makes an example of one of you. TARLETON. Despotism tempered by assassination, eh? THE MAN. Yes. Thats what they do in Russia. Well, a business office is Russia as far as the clerks are concerned. So dont you take it so coolly. You think I'm not going to do it; but I am. TARLETON. _[rising and facing him]_ Come, now, as man to man! It's not my fault that youre poorer than I am; and it's not your fault that I'm richer than you. And if you could undo all that passed between me and your mother, you wouldnt undo it; and neither would she. But youre sick of your slavery; and you want to be the hero of a romance and to get into the papers. Eh? A son revenges his mother's shame. Villain weltering in his gore. Mother: look down from heaven and receive your unhappy son's last sigh. THE MAN. Oh, rot! do you think I read novelettes? And do you suppose I believe such superstitions as heaven? I go to church because the boss told me I'd get the sack if I didnt. Free England! Ha! _[Lina appears at the pavilion door, and comes swiftly and noiselessly forward on seeing the man with a pistol in his hand]._ TARLETON. Youre afraid of getting the sack; but youre not afraid to shoot yourself. THE MAN. Damn you! youre trying to keep me talking until somebody comes. _[He raises the pistol desperately, but not very resolutely]._ LINA. _[at his right elbow]_ Somebody has come. THE MAN _[turning on her]_ Stand off. I'll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. I will, by God. LINA. You cant cover me with that pistol. Try. _He tries, presenting the pistol at her face. She moves round him in the opposite direction to the hands of a clock with a light dancing step. He finds it impossible to cover her with the pistol: she is always too far to his left. Tarleton, behind him, grips his wrist and drags his arm straight up, so that the pistol points to the ceiling. As he tries to turn on his assailant, Lina grips his other wrist._ LINA. Please stop. I cant bear to twist anyone's wrist; but I must if you dont let the pistol go. THE MAN. _[letting Tarleton take it from him]_ All right: I'm done. Couldnt even do that job decently. Thats a clerk all over. Very well: send for your damned police and make an end of it. I'm accustomed to prison from nine to six: I daresay I can stand it from six to nine as well. TARLETON. Dont swear. Thats a lady. _[He throws the pistol on the writing table]._ THE MAN. _[looking at Lina in amazement]_ Beaten by a female! It needed only this. _[He collapses in the chair near the worktable, and hides his face. They cannot help pitying him]._ LINA. Old pal: dont call the police. Lend him a bicycle and let him get away. THE MAN. I cant ride a bicycle. I never could afford one. I'm not even that much good. TARLETON. If I gave you a hundred pound note now to go and have a good spree with, I wonder would you know how to set about it. Do you ever take a holiday? THE MAN. Take! I got four days last August. TARLETON. What did you do? THE MAN. I did a cheap trip to Folkestone. I spent sevenpence on dropping pennies into silly automatic machines and peepshows of rowdy girls having a jolly time. I spent a penny on the lift and fourpence on refreshments. That cleaned me out. The rest of the time I was so miserable that I was glad to get back to the office. Now you know. LINA. Come to the gymnasium: I'll teach you how to make a man of yourself. _[The man is about to rise irresolutely, from the mere habit of doing what he is told, when Tarleton stops him]._ TARLETON. Young man: dont. Youve tried to shoot me; but I'm not vindictive. I draw the line at putting a man on the rack. If you want every joint in your body stretched until it's an agony to live--until you have an unnatural feeling that all your muscles are singing and laughing with pain--then go to the gymnasium with that lady. But youll be more comfortable in jail. LINA. _[greatly amused]_ Was that why you went away, old pal? Was that the telegram you said you had forgotten to send? _Mrs Tarleton comes in hastily through the inner door._ MRS TARLETON. _[on the steps]_ Is anything the matter, John? Nurse says she heard you calling me a quarter of an hour ago; and that your voice sounded as if you were ill. _[She comes between Tarleton and the man.]_ Is anything the matter? TARLETON. This is the son of an old friend of mine. Mr--er--Mr Gunner. _[To the man, who rises awkwardly]._ My wife. MRS TARLETON. Good evening to you. GUNNER. Er-- _[He is too nervous to speak, and makes a shambling bow]._ _Bentley looks in at the pavilion door, very peevish, and too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to those of the company._ BENTLEY. I say: has anybody seen Hypatia? She promised to come out with me; and I cant find her anywhere. And wheres Joey? GUNNER. _[suddenly breaking out aggressively, being incapable of any middle way between submissiveness and violence]_ _I_ can tell you where Hypatia is. I can tell you where Joey is. And I say it's a scandal and an infamy. If people only knew what goes on in this so-called respectable house it would be put a stop to. These are the morals of our pious capitalist class! This is your rotten bourgeoisie! This!-- MRS TARLETON. Dont you dare use such language in company. I wont allow it. TARLETON. All right, Chickabiddy: it's not bad language: it's only Socialism. MRS TARLETON. Well, I wont have any Socialism in my house. TARLETON. _[to Gunner]_ You hear what Mrs Tarleton says. Well, in this house everybody does what she says or out they go. GUNNER. Do you suppose I want to stay? Do you think I would breathe this polluted atmosphere a moment longer than I could help? BENTLEY. _[running forward between Lina and Gunner]_ But what did you mean by what you said about Miss Tarleton and Mr Percival, you beastly rotter, you? GUNNER. _[to Tarleton]_ Oh! is Hypatia your daughter? And Joey is Mister Percival, is he? One of your set, I suppose. One of the smart set! One of the bridge-playing, eighty-horse-power, week-ender set! One of the johnnies I slave for! Well, Joey has more decency than your daughter, anyhow. The women are the worst. I never believed it til I saw it with my own eyes. Well, it wont last for ever. The writing is on the wall. Rome fell. Babylon fell. Hindhead's turn will come. MRS TARLETON. _[naively looking at the wall for the writing]_ Whatever are you talking about, young man? GUNNER. I know what I'm talking about. I went into that Turkish bath a boy: I came out a man. MRS TARLETON. Good gracious! hes mad. _[To Lina]_ Did John make him take a Turkish bath? LINA. No. He doesnt need Turkish baths: he needs to put on a little flesh. I dont understand what it's all about. I found him trying to shoot Mr Tarleton. MRS TARLETON. _[with a scream]_ Oh! and John encouraging him, I'll be bound! Bunny: you go for the police. _[To Gunner]_ I'll teach you to come into my house and shoot my husband. GUNNER. Teach away. I never asked to be let off. I'm ashamed to be free instead of taking my part with the rest. Women--beautiful women of noble birth--are going to prison for their opinions. Girl students in Russia go to the gallows; let themselves be cut in pieces with the knout, or driven through the frozen snows of Siberia, sooner than stand looking on tamely at the world being made a hell for the toiling millions. If you were not all skunks and cowards youd be suffering with them instead of battening here on the plunder of the poor. MRS TARLETON. _[much vexed]_ Oh, did you ever hear such silly nonsense? Bunny: go and tell the gardener to send over one of his men to Grayshott for the police. GUNNER. I'll go with him. I intend to give myself up. I'm going to expose what Ive seen here, no matter what the consequences may be to my miserable self. TARLETON. Stop. You stay where you are, Ben. Chickabiddy: youve never had the police in. If you had, youd not be in a hurry to have them in again. Now, young man: cut the cackle; and tell us, as short as you can, what did you see? GUNNER. I cant tell you in the presence of ladies. MRS TARLETON. Oh, you are tiresome. As if it mattered to anyone what you saw. Me! A married woman that might be your mother. _[To Lina]_ And I'm sure youre not particular, if youll excuse my saying so. TARLETON. Out with it. What did you see? GUNNER. I saw your daughter with my own eyes--oh well, never mind what I saw. BENTLEY. _[almost crying with anxiety]_ You beastly rotter, I'll get Joey to give you such a hiding-- TARLETON. You cant leave it at that, you know. What did you see my daughter doing? GUNNER. After all, why shouldnt she do it? The Russian students do it. Women should be as free as men. I'm a fool. I'm so full of your bourgeois morality that I let myself be shocked by the application of my own revolutionary principles. If she likes the man why shouldnt she tell him so? MRS TARLETON. I do wonder at you, John, letting him talk like this before everybody. _[Turning rather tartly to Lina]_ Would you mind going away to the drawing-room just for a few minutes, Miss Chipenoska. This is a private family matter, if you dont mind. LINA. I should have gone before, Mrs Tarleton, if there had been anyone to protect Mr Tarleton and the young gentleman. TARLETON. Youre quite right, Miss Lina: you must stand by. I could have tackled him this morning; but since you put me through those exercises I'd rather die than even shake hands with a man, much less fight him. GUNNER. It's all of a piece here. The men effeminate, the women unsexed-- TARLETON. Dont begin again, old chap. Keep it for Trafalgar Square. HYPATIA'S VOICE OUTSIDE. No, no. _[She breaks off in a stifled half laugh, half scream, and is seen darting across the garden with Percival in hot pursuit. Immediately afterwards she appears again, and runs into the pavilion. Finding it full of people, including a stranger, she stops; but Percival, flushed and reckless, rushes in and seizes her before he, too, realizes that they are not alone. He releases her in confusion]._ _Dead silence. They are all afraid to look at one another except Mrs Tarleton, who stares sternly at Hypatia. Hypatia is the first to recover her presence of mind._ HYPATIA. Excuse me rushing in like this. Mr Percival has been chasing me down the hill. GUNNER. Who chased him up it? Dont be ashamed. Be fearless. Be truthful. TARLETON. Gunner: will you go to Paris for a fortnight? I'll pay your expenses. HYPATIA. What do you mean? GUNNER. There was a silent witness in the Turkish bath. TARLETON. I found him hiding there. Whatever went on here, he saw and heard. Thats what he means. PERCIVAL. _[sternly approaching Gunner, and speaking with deep but contained indignation]_ Am I to understand you as daring to put forward the monstrous and blackguardly lie that this lady behaved improperly in my presence? GUNNER. _[turning white]_ You know what I saw and heard. _Hypatia, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, slips noiselessly into the swing chair, and watches Percival and Gunner, swinging slightly, but otherwise motionless._ PERCIVAL. I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you all that there is not one word of truth--not one grain of substance--in this rascally calumny, which no man with a spark of decent feeling would have uttered even if he had been ignorant enough to believe it. Miss Tarleton's conduct, since I have had the honor of knowing her, has been, I need hardly say, in every respect beyond reproach. _[To Gunner]_ As for you, sir, youll have the goodness to come out with me immediately. I have some business with you which cant be settled in Mrs Tarleton's presence or in her house. GUNNER. _[painfully frightened]_ Why should I go out with you? PERCIVAL. Because I intend that you shall. GUNNER. I wont be bullied by you. _[Percival makes a threatening step towards him]._ Police! _[He tries to bolt; but Percival seizes him]._ Leave me go, will you? What right have you to lay hands on me? TARLETON. Let him run for it, Mr Percival. Hes very poor company. We shall be well rid of him. Let him go. PERCIVAL. Not until he has taken back and made the fullest apology for the abominable lie he has told. He shall do that or he shall defend himself as best he can against the most thorough thrashing I'm capable of giving him. _[Releasing Gunner, but facing him ominously]_ Take your choice. Which is it to be? GUNNER. Give me a fair chance. Go and stick at a desk from nine to six for a month, and let me have your grub and your sport and your lessons in boxing, and I'll fight you fast enough. You know I'm no good or you darent bully me like this. PERCIVAL. You should have thought of that before you attacked a lady with a dastardly slander. I'm waiting for your decision. I'm rather in a hurry, please. GUNNER. I never said anything against the lady. MRS TARLETON. | Oh, listen to that! | BENTLEY. | What a liar! | HYPATIA. | Oh! | TARLETON. | Oh, come! PERCIVAL. We'll have it in writing, if you dont mind. _[Pointing to the writing table]_ Sit down; and take that pen in your hand. _[Gunner looks irresolutely a little way round; then obeys]._ Now write. "I," whatever your name is-- GUNNER _[after a vain attempt]_ I cant. My hand's shaking too much. You see it's no use. I'm doing my best. I cant. PERCIVAL. Mr Summerhays will write it: you can sign it. BENTLEY. _[insolently to Gunner]_ Get up. _[Gunner obeys; and Bentley, shouldering him aside towards Percival, takes his place and prepares to write]._ PERCIVAL. Whats your name? GUNNER. John Brown. TARLETON. Oh come! Couldnt you make it Horace Smith? or Algernon Robinson? GUNNER. _[agitatedly]_ But my name is John Brown. There are really John Browns. How can I help it if my name's a common one? BENTLEY. Shew us a letter addressed to you. GUNNER. How can I? I never get any letters: I'm only a clerk. I can shew you J. B. on my handkerchief. _[He takes out a not very clean one]._ BENTLEY. _[with disgust]_ Oh, put it up again. Let it go at John Brown. PERCIVAL. Where do you live? GUNNER. 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, N.W. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I-- _[To Tarleton]_ What did he do exactly? TARLETON. _[dictating]_ --I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath-- BENTLEY. Go slow, old man. Just a moment. "Turkish bath"--yes? TARLETON. _[continuing]_ --with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton-- MRS TARLETON. Oh, John! You might have been killed. TARLETON. --and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lina Szczepanowska. MRS TARLETON. Is she celebrated? _[Apologetically]_ I never dreamt-- BENTLEY. Look here: I'm awfully sorry; but I cant spell Szczepanowska. PERCIVAL. I think it's S, z, c, z-- _[Lina gives him her visiting-card]._ Thank you. _[He throws it on Bentley's blotter]._ BENTLEY. Thanks awfully. _[He writes the name]._ TARLETON. _[to Percival]_ Now it's your turn. PERCIVAL. _[dictating]_ I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. _Impressive silence whilst Bentley writes._ BENTLEY. "foundation"? PERCIVAL. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct-- _[he waits for Bentley to write]._ BENTLEY. "conduct"? PERCIVAL. --and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life-- BENTLEY. "amend my life"? PERCIVAL. --and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance-- BENTLEY. "another chance"? PERCIVAL. --and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. BENTLEY. "richly deserve." PERCIVAL. _[to Hypatia]_ Does that satisfy you, Miss Tarleton? HYPATIA. Yes: that will teach him to tell lies next time. BENTLEY. _[rising to make place for Gunner and handing him the pen]_ You mean it will teach him to tell the truth next time. TARLETON. Ahem! Do you, Patsy? PERCIVAL. Be good enough to sign. _[Gunner sits down helplessly and dips the pen in the ink]._ I hope what you are signing is no mere form of words to you, and that you not only say you are sorry, but that you are sorry. _Lord Summerhays and Johnny come in through the pavilion door._ MRS TARLETON. Stop. Mr Percival: I think, on Hypatia's account, Lord Summerhays ought to be told about this. _Lord Summerhays, wondering what the matter is, comes forward between Percival and Lina. Johnny stops beside Hypatia._ PERCIVAL. Certainly. TARLETON. _[uneasily]_ Take my advice, and cut it short. Get rid of him. MRS TARLETON. Hypatia ought to have her character cleared. TARLETON. You let well alone, Chickabiddy. Most of our characters will bear a little careful dusting; but they wont bear scouring. Patsy is jolly well out of it. What does it matter, anyhow? PERCIVAL. Mr Tarleton: we have already said either too much or not enough. Lord Summerhays: will you be kind enough to witness the declaration this man has just signed? GUNNER. I havnt yet. Am I to sign now? PERCIVAL. Of course. _[Gunner, who is now incapable of doing anything on his own initiative, signs]._ Now stand up and read your declaration to this gentleman. _[Gunner makes a vague movement and looks stupidly round. Percival adds peremptorily]_ Now, please. GUNNER _[rising apprehensively and reading in a hardly audible voice, like a very sick man]_ I, John Brown, of 4 Chesterfield Parade, Kentish Town, do hereby voluntarily confess that on the 31st May 1909 I trespassed on the land of John Tarleton at Hindhead, and effected an unlawful entry into his house, where I secreted myself in a portable Turkish bath, with a pistol, with which I threatened to take the life of the said John Tarleton, and was prevented from doing so only by the timely arrival of the celebrated Miss Lena Sh-Sh-sheepanossika. I further confess that I was guilty of uttering an abominable calumny concerning Miss Hypatia Tarleton, for which there was not a shred of foundation. I apologize most humbly to the lady and her family for my conduct; and I promise Mr Tarleton not to repeat it, and to amend my life, and to do what in me lies to prove worthy of his kindness in giving me another chance and refraining from delivering me up to the punishment I so richly deserve. _A short and painful silence follows. Then Percival speaks._ PERCIVAL.

miserable

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

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word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

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word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

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word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

particular

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

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word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

throb

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

wondering

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

gauze

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

contenting

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

let

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

dull

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

scattered

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

animals

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word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

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word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

call

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

willing

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

cheesy

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

than

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

word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening. The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two. "What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry." "So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am." "What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature." "And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette. "Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece. "I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon." "Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one." "Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me." "Oh, Kate!" "Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too." "I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs." "I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already." "My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny." "It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate. "Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow. "I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything." "Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!" "I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself." "Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table. "Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself." "And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life." "He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "I dare say he does," said Kate. "And about you, too, my dear." "He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means." "Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow. "If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once." "What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear." On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings. Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were." "We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead. "Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up." "But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits." Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these." "But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?" "Return them, Mrs. Greenow!" "Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed." "And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?" "You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now." "When shall we talk of it?" "If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself." "Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come." "But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre. "You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her." Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can. CHAPTER XX. Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,--and then--" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. [Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"] "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. CHAPTER XXI. Alice Is Taught to Grow Upwards, Towards the Light. Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty

worth

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

parti

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

prisons

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

angle

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

rough

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

skirted

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

disgraced

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

nothingness

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

door

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

window

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

bitterness

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

reigned

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

seated

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

beneficent

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

revoir

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

pins

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

showing

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

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word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

under

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

word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute Heron's return; unfortunately he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand; but why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jeanne Lange," he added emphatically; "I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want. You through her, and me through you. I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you; and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word." "What do you wish me to do?" "Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger--oh, no! not for you," added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand's words of protestation, "danger for the others--and for our scheme tomorrow." "How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she--" "Is under my charge?" interposed the other calmly. "That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other's shoulder, "you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as St. Germain. Go down to the room below and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing or the stairs of the house in the Square du Roule. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Villette. You understand?" "Yes, yes!" said Armand eagerly. "You want me to join Ffoulkes and Tony." "Yes! You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for St. Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with Ffoulkes." "Yes, I understand; but how will Tony reach St. Germain?" "La, my good fellow," said Blakeney gaily, "you may safely trust Tony to go where I send him. Do you but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to La Villette, because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of Mademoiselle Lange." Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips; he knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him, despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jeanne. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the other members of the League. How gladly would he have chaffed and made senseless schoolboy jokes like those which--in face of their hazardous enterprise and the dangers which they all ran--had horrified him so much last night. But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jeanne, and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement; there was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. "I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney in answer to the unspoken prayer; "cannot you try and trust me--as the others do? Then with sudden transition he pointed to the map behind him. "Remember the gate of Villette, and the corner by the towpath. Join Ffoulkes as soon as may be and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle Lange some time to-night." "God bless you, Percy!" said Armand involuntarily. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour." He accompanied Armand through the ante-room, and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window, which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE And now the shades of evening had long since yielded to those of night. The gate of La Villette, at the northeast corner of the city, was about to close. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a labouring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end; from this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal wharf in the early morning he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set-to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coalheavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go, it had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon the labourers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew, if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded. As soon as he had given up his tools, his brain began to work again more busily than ever. It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jeanne. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy--a marked man if ever there was one--go from prison to prison to inquire about Jeanne? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensate plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was nowhere to be seen. St. Just wandered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes the gates would be closed and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one; the labourers on foot were returning to their homes; there was a group of stonemasons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who herded somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour; some men who had finished their work, and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf; others who liked to gather a small knot of listeners around them, whilst they discoursed on the politics of the day, or rather raged against the Convention, which was all made up of traitors to the people's welfare. Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment--now or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said. Perhaps it was when he heard the roll of drums proclaiming the closing of the gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he (Armand) would have the night to face without news of Jeanne. Something, of course, had detained Percy; perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jeanne; perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been there, and Armand had had some one to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait with outward patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule when first he had heard of Jeanne's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Revolution, the tall rough post that held a flickering oil lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine, the feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with the reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng--they were all pressing round him so that he could not move; they were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and scythes. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear: the rattle of wheels on rough cobble-stones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout; some sang the "Ca ira!" and others screamed: "Les aristos! a la lanterne! a mort! a mort! les aristos!" He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debouched on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart; but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand. She wore her pale-grey satin gown, and a white kerchief was folded across her bosom. Her brown hair fell in loose soft curls all round her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one, but he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jeanne, and only Jeanne, standing on the tumbril and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise--his oath; he forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember--his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jeanne had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jeanne. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain; a hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy, who did not know her, to save Jeanne or to guard her. That task was Armand's, who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow in coming. A tower clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonising moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard-room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in coal-dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city; if one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so; the difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws. CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return, whilst the young man haunted the precincts of St. Germain l'Auxerrois and wandered along the quays hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realised that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jeanne. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy, he had no news of Jeanne; it seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse and, tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jeanne's whereabouts; but where a mere friend had failed a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Blakeney's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over full just now; convents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the Government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion, or at the mere denunciation of an evil-wisher. There were the Abbaye and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the Visitation and the Sacre-Coeur, the cloister of the Oratorians, the Salpetriere, and the St. Lazare hospitals, and there was, of course, the Temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the ante-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jeanne was not in immediate danger the better would he be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jeanne was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that mayhap the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts, and the making of plans, fortified him mentally and physically; he even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of service to Jeanne. He reached the Quai de l'Horloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Chatelet and the house of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower, and passed through the monumental gateways of the house of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the Tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling--men and women who apparently had no other occupation save to come day after day to this theatre of horrors and watch the different acts of the heartrending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of workingmen amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear--just a name flippantly spoken by spiteful lips--and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning he had thought of nothing but of Jeanne, and--in connection with her--of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by some one unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. "Capet!" the name--intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant--whereby the uncrowned little King of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday, the 19th of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name, "Capet," had brought everything back: the child in the Temple; the conference in Blakeney's lodgings; the plans for the rescue of the boy. That was to take place to-day--Sunday, the 19th. The Simons would be moving from the Temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be today, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything; a great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jeanne! He was busy thinking of the child in the Temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the Scarlet Pimpernel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jeanne to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned King. But the bitterness did not last long; on the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jeanne alone. It was better so! He would save the loved one; it was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now; soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wandered about at will along the corridors of the house of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those aristos who were awaiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards had become one of the sights of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. Tall iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates; but if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the ironwork and watch the ci-devant aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness which their wan faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the Salle des Pas Perdus, and wandered idly up and down the majestic colonnaded hall. He even at one time formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch; hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Foucquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs Elysees without wearing a tricolour cockade; the other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise; yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market! Sometimes from one of these unfortunates led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman screams of agonised entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations--wholesale sentences of death--were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all--the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France. Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jeanne. Among the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake and soon found himself in the long Galerie des Prisonniers, along the flagstones of which two days ago de Batz had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that mayhap Jeanne would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good-humoured jest, made way for him that he might watch the aristos. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that of sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flag-stones. Presently, however, his eyes, which mayhap were somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy, with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor, torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and--oh, the pity of it! the pity and the shame!--a few children, shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And, between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen, yet familiar to all, the spectre of Death, scythe and hour-glass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly--very slowly--a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel, who had stood aside for him, chaffed him for his intentness. "Have you a sweetheart among these aristos, citizen?" he asked. "You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with coal-dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the ci-devant aristos who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up; the soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild, anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. "Have I made a shrewd guess, citizen?" he said. "Is she among that lot?" "I do not know where she is," said Armand almost involuntarily. "Then why don't you find out?" queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand, devoured with the maddening desire to know, threw the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. "I would like to find out," he said, "but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added lightly; "some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, mayhap, she has been arrested." "Well, then, you gaby," said the soldier good-humouredly, "go straight to La Tournelle; you know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant lout. "Straight down that first corridor on your right," explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated, "you will find the guichet of La Tournelle exactly opposite to you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners--every freeborn citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, "you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection." "Half a livre!" exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. "How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "Well! a few sous will do in that case; a few sous are always welcome these hard times." Armand took the

cheer

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