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you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

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you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

dive

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

grasse

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

something

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

spot

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

belfries

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

motherless

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

loan

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

lamp

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

timidly

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

provinces

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

confidence

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

thinking

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

history

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

smiling

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

bred

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

crossing

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

you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

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you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!" "The man," she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, "was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too." "Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. You know everything. You read all the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all." She shook her head slightly. "It was impossible," she murmured. "He wanted the whole lot? What?" She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala. Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces. "We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, "have been always distinct and separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'" She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell. "Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?" She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that possibility. "It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions," he said, prophetically. She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider. "Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him." "Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?" "A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way." "Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence." The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero. Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his spirit, "America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving. He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause. "But we are labouring to change all that," Antonia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who--" "Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, looking down. There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps. "Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the gate," observed Decoud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know." Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs. "Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover." He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, "That can lead one very far, though." Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of "a justly incensed democracy" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman. The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals--" A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, "Gran' bestia!" This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street. "This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is--" "And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted Antonia. "I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?" Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth. She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices. The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible "_Monsieur l'Administrateur_" returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously. At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment. "Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?" she said, rapidly. "I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia," he answered, through clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly. The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits. He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his finger at Martin. Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger. "I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special sermon on the Plaza," he said, without making the slightest movement. "What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all over the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. "The man is a drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!" His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration. It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres. These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. "The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were. Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- "And you--you are a perfect heathen," he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. "Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios." The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither in stick nor stone," he said. "Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?" "True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you." "I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. "A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully. "Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. "But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound." The priest nodded and turned on the heels

hopefulness

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

seems

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

piqued

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you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

devil

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

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you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

death

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

security

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

turn

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

evidently

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

side

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you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

irresistible

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

persuasions

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

die

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you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

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you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

shop

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

stretched

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

raise

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

funds

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

kissed

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

attraction

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

you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can." Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology. "And yet," she went on, "it is because of me that the king lies dead now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn't know it. Even while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in working my punishment." Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my revolver: he would not move now. "I don't know," she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence, "what end in Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most; and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly. My heart is not yet humbled, God's work not yet done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched." She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor moved. "You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so great in my heart; and you knew how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead that you served the king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it." Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful, and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again, twisting his hands. "I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes." She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof, and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears. "Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz." "She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty." "She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom women turn, and women whom women fear. "But Helga writes no letters," said the queen. "Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never wooed my wife. She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace." As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her. "Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with me?" "Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped. The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me. "Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again. "Madam," he stammered, "Madam--" She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him. Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand. Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!" Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it. "It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't stand out against him." "Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away, but smiling. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with dignity, almost with displeasure. "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence." "Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?" "His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal occasions, she always used to call me Fritz. "His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--" "He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right." "No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep his word, given to me." Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he turned to me, and said in a low tone: "By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--" "My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together." There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn her. "Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," said I. "Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a moment, saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust him." I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it. "On my honor," he said. Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall. The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be examining his revolver with sedulous care. "You can put that away," said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied shaking hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a prisoner any longer. He's one of us now." "The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet. I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert's instrument to be her servant. "I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I thought he would, though I was not eager for his help. A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid on my shoulder. "Then there's only Bauer now," he whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, only Bauer!" I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will. "Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he went on. "The queen's waiting for the carriage," I interrupted snappishly. "Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he twisted me round till I was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a little. "Only Bauer now!" said he. "And Rupert," I remarked sourly. "Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he chuckled, and with that he went out of the hall door and announced the queen's approach to her servants. It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; I could not rival it myself. I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand and touched mine, whispering: "He must be at the house by now." Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was sitting with her hand in my wife's; I had been seated on the other side of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another; yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the room to where they were. "Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be away for a time?" I asked. "Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the queen asked with a little start, as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts. "To the Konigstrasse," said I. To my surprise she rose and caught my hand. "God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't think I could have endured it longer. But I wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!" My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip. "Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she asked. "Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said I. She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are wanted," she said. And she tried to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly. "I could have been such a wife, Fritz," whispered the queen. "Yes, I could." I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I should turn cur. Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the Konigstrasse. It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I feared that Rudolf's coming would have been seen, and expected to find a crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up and down with as careless an air as I could assume. Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk, their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his side was Rischenheim. "You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, nothing seems to be happening, does it?" For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door closed; the little shop was not open for business that day. Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head, caught across the shoulders of the bystanders. The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there: what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to the house in the Konigstrasse. He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement. I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein's remark, "Only Bauer now!" If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me. Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, however procured, would clear the greatest hindrance from its way. Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him. His hand was in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of the elbow came there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me. "Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I. He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me. "Are you also hoping to see the king?" I asked. He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face. "The king?" he asked. "Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave you the wound on your head?" Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He found himself tightly held. "Where's that bag of mine?" I asked. I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment's hesitation I set myself to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror: "Help, help! The king! The king!" CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his opponents might find themselves able to declare the king's death and raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue. Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before hurt should come to him. There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door for him, Rosa." Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than Bauer's. "Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. "The shop's shut to-day: you can't come in." "But I am in," came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with excitement. "Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old woman and smiling down on her. There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit. "Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl broke in with an amused laugh. "Why, it's the--" She paused. Perhaps the king's identity was a secret. Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I am," said he. "Why, mother, it's the king," whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, mother." "Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out how much the old woman knew. She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission. "I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once." The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo. "Nobody can see the count. He's not here," she blurted out. "What, can't the king see him? Not even the king?" "King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the king?" Rosa burst out laughing. "Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times," she laughed. "The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly. The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm. "His ghost? Is he?" "His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir." Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the king? "God help us!" she muttered in fear and bewilderment. "He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?" The girl had caught alarm from her mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the attic at the top of the house, sir," she whispered in frightened tones, with a glance that fled from her mother's terrified face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile. What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began to mount the stairs. The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment, wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl, quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed gazing. Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised, and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal. "Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his coat. Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir. "Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part this time, though." "What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell you news?" "No, I know what you've done." "I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?" At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the "other one" and "a heavenly crown"? "Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf. "They call you that in

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you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

groaned

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

get

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

familiarly

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

accept

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

pounds

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

sordid

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

candid

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

lady

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

somehow

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

spoil

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

phrased

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

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you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

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you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

charming

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

ground

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

shelf

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

new

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

you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

dumps

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you, when I was in this absurd state of ignorance, to impute to me the honour of having been more struck with you than any one else," he continued after a moment. "Yes, I confess I don't quite see--when the shops were full of my photographs." "Oh I'm so poor--I don't go into shops," he explained. "Are you very poor?" "I live on alms." "And don't they pay you--the government, the ministry?" "Dear young lady, for what?--for shutting myself up with beautiful women?" "Ah you've others then?" she extravagantly groaned. "They're not so kind as you, I confess." "I'll buy it from you--what you're doing: I'll pay you well when it's done," said the girl. "I've got money now. I make it, you know--a good lot of it. It's too delightful after scraping and starving. Try it and you'll see. Give up the base, bad world." "But isn't it supposed to be the base, bad world that pays?" "Precisely; make it pay without mercy--knock it silly, squeeze it dry. That's what it's meant for--to pay for art. Ah if it wasn't for that! I'll bring you a quantity of photographs to-morrow--you must let me come back to-morrow: it's so amusing to have them, by the hundred, all for nothing, to give away. That's what takes mamma most: she can't get over it. That's luxury and glory; even at Castle Nugent they didn't do that. People used to sketch me, but not so much as mamma _veut bien le dire_; and in all my life I never had but one poor little carte-de-visite, when I was sixteen, in a plaid frock, with the banks of a river, at three francs the dozen." XXVI It was success, the member for Harsh felt, that had made her finer--the full possession of her talent and the sense of the recognition of it. There was an intimation in her presence (if he had given his mind to it) that for him too the same cause would produce the same effect--that is would show him how being launched in the practice of an art makes strange and prompt revelations. Nick felt clumsy beside a person who manifestly, now, had such an extraordinary familiarity with the esthetic point of view. He remembered too the clumsiness that had been in his visitor--something silly and shabby, pert rather than proper, and of quite another value than her actual smartness, as London people would call it, her well-appointedness and her evident command of more than one manner. Handsome as she had been the year before, she had suggested sordid lodgings, bread and butter, heavy tragedy and tears; and if then she was an ill-dressed girl with thick hair who wanted to be an actress, she was already in these few weeks a performer who could even produce an impression of not performing. She showed what a light hand she could have, forbore to startle and looked as well, for unprofessional life, as Julia: which was only the perfection of her professional character. This function came out much in her talk, for there were many little bursts of confidence as well as many familiar pauses as she sat there; and she was ready to tell Nick the whole history of her _d but_--the chance that had suddenly turned up and that she had caught, with a fierce leap, as it passed. He missed some of the details in his attention to his own task, and some of them he failed to understand, attached as they were to the name of Mr. Basil Dashwood, which he heard for the first time. It was through Mr. Dashwood's extraordinary exertions that a hearing--a morning performance at a London theatre--had been obtained for her. That had been the great step, for it had led to the putting on at night of the play, at the same theatre, in place of a wretched thing they were trying (it was no use) to keep on its feet, and to her engagement for the principal part. She had made a hit in it--she couldn't pretend not to know that; but she was already tired of it, there were so many other things she wanted to do; and when she thought it would probably run a month or two more she fell to cursing the odious conditions of artistic production in such an age. The play was a more or less idiotised version of a new French piece, a thing that had taken in Paris at a third-rate theatre and was now proving itself in London good enough for houses mainly made up of ten-shilling stalls. It was Dashwood who had said it would go if they could get the rights and a fellow to make some changes: he had discovered it at a nasty little place she had never been to, over the Seine. They had got the rights, and the fellow who had made the changes was practically Dashwood himself; there was another man in London, Mr. Gushmore--Miriam didn't know if Nick had heard of him (Nick hadn't) who had done some of it. It had been awfully chopped down, to a mere bone, with the meat all gone; but that was what people in London seemed to like. They were very innocent--thousands of little dogs amusing themselves with a bone. At any rate she had made something, she had made a figure, of the woman--a dreadful stick, with what Dashwood had muddled her into; and Miriam added in the complacency of her young expansion: "Oh give me fifty words any time and the ghost of a situation, and I'll set you up somebody. Besides, I mustn't abuse poor Yolande--she has saved us," she said. "'Yolande'--?" "Our ridiculous play. That's the name of the impossible woman. She has put bread into our mouths and she's a loaf on the shelf for the future. The rights are mine." "You're lucky to have them," said Nick a little vaguely, troubled about his sitter's nose, which was somehow Jewish without the convex arch. "Indeed I am. He gave them to me. Wasn't it charming?" "'He' gave them--Mr. Dashwood?" "Dear me, no--where should poor Dashwood have got them? He hasn't a penny in the world. Besides, if he had got them he'd have kept them. I mean your blessed cousin." "I see--they're a present from Peter." "Like many other things. Isn't he a dear? If it hadn't been for him the shelf would have remained bare. He bought the play for this country and America for four hundred pounds, and on the chance: fancy! There was no rush for it, and how could he tell? And then he gracefully pressed it on me. So I've my little capital. Isn't he a duck? You've nice cousins." Nick assented to the proposition, only inserting an amendment to the effect that surely Peter had nice cousins too, and making, as he went on with his work, a tacit, preoccupied reflexion or two; such as that it must be pleasant to render little services like that to youth, beauty and genius--he rather wondered how Peter could afford them--and that, "duck" as he was, Miss Rooth's benefactor was rather taken for granted. _Sic vos non vobis_ softly sounded in his brain. This community of interests, or at least of relations, quickened the flight of time, so that he was still fresh when the sitting came to an end. It was settled Miriam should come back on the morrow, to enable her artist to make the most of the few days of the parliamentary recess; and just before she left him she asked: "Then you _will_ come to-night?" "Without fail. I hate to lose an hour of you." "Then I'll place you. It will be my affair." "You're very kind"--he quite rose to it. "Isn't it a simple matter for me to take a stall? This week I suppose they're to be had." "I'll send you a box," said Miriam. "You shall do it well. There are plenty now." "Why should I be lost, all alone, in the grandeur of a box?" "Can't you bring your friend?" "My friend?" "The lady you're engaged to." "Unfortunately she's out of town." Miriam looked at him in the grand manner. "Does she leave you alone like that?" "She thought I should like it--I should be more free to paint. You see I am." "Yes, perhaps it's good for _me_. Have you got her portrait?" Miriam asked. "She doesn't like me to paint her." "Really? Perhaps then she won't like you to paint me." "That's why I want to be quick!" laughed Nick. "Before she knows it?" "Shell know it to-morrow. I shall write to her." The girl faced him again portentously. "I see you're afraid of her." But she added: "Mention my name; they'll give you the box at the office." Whether or no Nick were afraid of Mrs. Dallow he still waved away this bounty, protesting that he would rather take a stall according to his wont and pay for it. Which led his guest to declare with a sudden flicker of passion that if he didn't do as she wished she would never sit to him again. "Ah then you have me," he had to reply. "Only I _don't_ see why you should give me so many things." "What in the world have I given you?" "Why an idea." And Nick looked at his picture rather ruefully. "I don't mean to say though that I haven't let it fall and smashed it." "Ah an idea--that _is_ a great thing for people in our line. But you'll see me much better from the box and I'll send you Gabriel Nash." She got into the hansom her host's servant had fetched for her, and as Nick turned back into his studio after watching her drive away he laughed at the conception that they were in the same "line." He did share, in the event, his box at the theatre with Nash, who talked during the _entr'actes_ not in the least about the performance or the performer, but about the possible greatness of the art of the portraitist--its reach, its range, its fascination, the magnificent examples it had left us in the past: windows open into history, into psychology, things that were among the most precious possessions of the human race. He insisted above all on the interest, the importance of this great peculiarity of it, that unlike most other forms it was a revelation of two realities, the man whom it was the artist's conscious effort to reveal and the man--the interpreter--expressed in the very quality and temper of that effort. It offered a double vision, the strongest dose of life that art could give, the strongest dose of art that life could give. Nick Dormer had already become aware of having two states of mind when listening to this philosopher; one in which he laughed, doubted, sometimes even reprobated, failed to follow or accept, and another in which his old friend seemed to take the words out of his mouth, to utter for him, better and more completely, the very things he was on the point of saying. Gabriel's saying them at such moments appeared to make them true, to set them up in the world, and to-night he said a good many, especially as to the happiness of cultivating one's own garden, growing there, in stillness and freedom, certain strong, pure flowers that would bloom for ever, bloom long after the rank weeds of the hour were withered and blown away. It was to keep Miriam Rooth in his eye for his current work that Nick had come to the play; and she dwelt there all the evening, being constantly on the stage. He was so occupied in watching her face--for he now saw pretty clearly what he should attempt to make of it--that he was conscious only in a secondary degree of the story she illustrated, and had in regard to her acting a surprised sense that she was extraordinarily quiet. He remembered her loudness, her violence in Paris, at Peter Sherringham's, her wild wails, the first time, at Madame Carr 's; compared with which her present manner was eminently temperate and modern. Nick Dormer was not critical at the theatre; he believed what he saw and had a pleasant sense of the inevitable; therefore he wouldn't have guessed what Gabriel Nash had to tell him--that for this young woman, with her tragic cast and her peculiar attributes, her present performance, full of actuality, of light fine indications and at moments of pointed touches of comedy, was a rare _tour de force_. It went on altogether in a register he hadn't supposed her to possess and in which, as he said, she didn't touch her capital, doing it all with her wonderful little savings. It conveyed to him that she was capable of almost anything. In one of the intervals they went round to see her; but for Nick this purpose was partly defeated by the extravagant transports, as they struck him, of Mrs. Rooth, whom they found sitting with her daughter and who attacked him with a hundred questions about his dear mother and his charming sisters. She had volumes to say about the day in Paris when they had shown her the kindness she should never forget. She abounded also in admiration of the portrait he had so cleverly begun, declaring she was so eager to see it, however little he might as yet have accomplished, that she should do herself the honour to wait upon him in the morning when Miriam came to sit. "I'm acting for you to-night," the girl more effectively said before he returned to his place. "No, that's exactly what you're not doing," Nash interposed with one of his happy sagacities. "You've stopped acting, you've reduced it to the least that will do, you simply are--you're just the visible image, the picture on the wall. It keeps you wonderfully in focus. I've never seen you so beautiful." Miriam stared at this; then it could be seen that she coloured. "What a luxury in life to have everything explained! He's the great explainer," she herself explained to Nick. He shook hands with her for good-night. "Well then, we must give him lots to do." She came to his studio in the morning, but unaccompanied by her mother, in allusion to whom she simply said, "Mamma wished to come but I wouldn't let her." They proceeded promptly to business. The girl divested herself of her hat and coat, taking the position already determined. After they had worked more than an hour with much less talk than the day before, Nick being extremely absorbed and Miriam wearing in silence an air of noble compunction for the burden imposed on him, at the end of this period of patience, pervaded by a holy calm, our young lady suddenly got up and exclaimed, "I say, I must see it!"--with which, quickly, she stepped down from her place and came round to the canvas. She had at Nick's request not looked at his work the day before. He fell back, glad to rest, and put down his palette and brushes. "_Ah bien, c'est tap _!" she cried as she stood before the easel. Nick was pleased with her ejaculation, he was even pleased with what he had done; he had had a long, happy spurt and felt excited and sanctioned. Miriam, retreating also a little, sank into a high-backed, old-fashioned chair that stood two or three yards from the picture and reclined in it, her head on one side, looking at the rough resemblance. She made a remark or two about it, to which Nick replied, standing behind her and after a moment leaning on the top of the chair. He was away from his work and his eyes searched it with a shy fondness of hope. They rose, however, as he presently became conscious that the door of the large room opposite him had opened without making a sound and that some one stood upon the threshold. The person on the threshold was Julia Dallow. As soon as he was aware Nick wished he had posted a letter to her the night before. He had written only that morning. There was nevertheless genuine joy in the words with which he bounded toward her--"Ah my dear Julia, what a jolly surprise!"--for her unannounced descent spoke to him above all of an irresistible desire to see him again sooner than they had arranged. She had taken a step forward, but she had done no more, stopping short at the sight of the strange woman, so divested of visiting-gear that she looked half-undressed, who lounged familiarly in the middle of the room and over whom Nick had been still more familiarly hanging. Julia's eyes rested on this embodied unexpectedness, and as they did so she grew pale--so pale that Nick, observing it, instinctively looked back to see what Miriam had done to produce such an effect. She had done nothing at all, which was precisely what was embarrassing; she only stared at the intruder, motionless and superb. She seemed somehow in easy possession of the place, and even at that instant Nick noted how handsome she looked; so that he said to himself inaudibly, in some deeper depth of consciousness, "How I should like to paint her that way!" Mrs. Dallow's eyes moved for a single moment to her friend's; then they turned away--away from Miriam, ranging over the room. "I've got a sitter, but you mustn't mind that; we're taking a rest. I'm delighted to see you"--he was all cordiality. He closed the door of the studio behind her; his servant was still at the outer door, which was open and through which he saw Julia's carriage drawn up. This made her advance a little further, but still she said nothing; she dropped no answer even when Nick went on with a sense of awkwardness: "When did you come back? I hope nothing has gone wrong. You come at a very interesting moment," he continued, aware as soon as he had spoken of something in his words that might have made her laugh. She was far from laughing, however; she only managed to look neither at him nor at Miriam and to say, after a little, when he had repeated his question about her return: "I came back this morning--I came straight here." "And nothing's wrong, I hope?" "Oh no--everything's all right," she returned very quickly and without expression. She vouchsafed no explanation of her premature descent and took no notice of the seat Nick offered her; neither did she appear to hear him when he begged her not to look yet at the work on the easel--it was in such a dreadful state. He was conscious, as he phrased it, that this request gave to Miriam's position, directly in front of his canvas, an air of privilege which her neglect to recognise in any way Mrs. Dallow's entrance or her importance did nothing to correct. But that mattered less if the appeal failed to reach Julia's intelligence, as he judged, seeing presently how deeply she was agitated. Nothing mattered in face of the sense of danger taking possession of him after she had been in the room a few moments. He wanted to say, "What's the difficulty? Has anything happened?" but he felt how little she would like him to utter words so intimate in presence of the person she had been rudely startled to find between them. He pronounced Miriam's name to her and her own to Miriam, but Julia's recognition of the ceremony was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. Miriam had the air of waiting for something more before she herself made a sign; and as nothing more came she continued to say nothing and not to budge. Nick added a remark to the effect that Julia would remember to have had the pleasure of meeting her the year before--in Paris, that day at old Peter's; to which Mrs. Dallow made answer, "Ah yes," without any qualification, while she looked down at some rather rusty studies on panels ranged along the floor and resting against the base of the wall. Her discomposure was a clear pain to herself; she had had a shock of extreme violence, and Nick saw that as Miriam showed no symptom of offering to give up her sitting her stay would be of the briefest. He wished that young woman would do something--say she would go, get up, move about; as it was she had the appearance of watching from her point of vantage the other's upset. He made a series of inquiries about Julia's doings in the country, to two or three of which she gave answers monosyllabic and scarcely comprehensible, only turning her eyes round and round the room as in search of something she couldn't find--of an escape, of something that was not Miriam. At last she said--it was at the end of a very few minutes: "I didn't come to stay--when you're so busy. I only looked in to see if you were here. Good-bye." "It's charming of you to have come. I'm so glad you've seen for yourself how well I'm occupied," Nick replied, not unconscious of how red he was. This made Mrs. Dallow look at him while Miriam considered them both. Julia's eyes had a strange light he had never seen before--a flash of fear by which he was himself frightened. "Of course I'll see you later," he added in awkward, in really misplaced gaiety while she reached the door, which she opened herself, getting out with no further attention to Miriam. "I wrote to you this morning--you've missed my letter," he repeated behind her, having already given her this information. The door of the studio was very near that of the house, but before she had reached the street the visitors' bell was set ringing. The passage was narrow and she kept in advance of Nick, anticipating his motion to open the street-door. The bell was tinkling still when, by the action of her own hand, a gentleman on the step stood revealed. "Ah my dear, don't go!" Nick heard pronounced in quick, soft dissuasion and in the now familiar accents of Gabriel Nash. The rectification followed more quickly still, if that were a rectification which so little improved the matter: "I beg a thousand pardons--I thought you were Miriam." Gabriel gave way and Julia the more sharply pursued her retreat. Her carriage, a victoria with a pair of precious heated horses, had taken a turn up the street, but the coachman had already seen his mistress and was rapidly coming back. He drew near; not so fast, however, but that Gabriel Nash had time to accompany Mrs. Dallow to the edge of the pavement with an apology for the freedom into which he had blundered. Nick was at her other hand, waiting to put her into the carriage and freshly disconcerted by the encounter with Nash, who somehow, as he stood making Julia an explanation that she didn't listen to, looked less eminent than usual, though not more conscious of difficulties. Our young man coloured deeper and watched the footman spring down as the victoria drove up; he heard Nash say something about the honour of having met Mrs. Dallow in Paris. Nick wanted him to go into the house; he damned inwardly his lack of delicacy. He desired a word with Julia alone--as much alone as the two annoying servants would allow. But Nash was not too much discouraged to say: "You came for a glimpse of the great model? Doesn't she sit? That's what I wanted too, this morning--just a look, for a blessing on the day. Ah but you, madam--" Julia had sprung into her corner while he was still speaking and had flashed out to the coachman a "Home!" which of itself set the horses in motion. The carriage went a few yards, but while Gabriel, with an undiscouraged bow, turned away, Nick Dormer, his hand on the edge of the hood, moved with it. "You don't like it, but I'll explain," he tried to say for its occupant alone. "Explain what?" she asked, still very pale and grave, but in a voice that showed nothing. She was thinking of the servants--she could think of them even then. "Oh it's all right. I'll come in at five," Nick returned, gallantly jocular, while she was whirled away. Gabriel had gone into the studio and Nick found him standing in admiration before Miriam, who had resumed the position in which she was sitting. "Lord, she's good to-day! Isn't she good to-day?" he broke out, seizing their host by the arm to give him a particular view. Miriam looked indeed still handsomer than before, and she had taken up her attitude again with a splendid, sphinx-like air of being capable of keeping it for ever. Nick said nothing, but went back to work with a tingle of confusion, which began to act after he had resumed his palette as a sharp, a delightful stimulus. Miriam spoke never a word, but she was doubly grand, and for more than an hour, till Nick, exhausted, declared he must stop, the industrious silence was broken only by the desultory discourse of their friend. XXVII Nick went to Great Stanhope Street at five o'clock and learned, rather to his surprise, that Julia was not at home--to his surprise because he had told her he would come at that hour, and he attributed to her, with a certain simplicity, an eager state of mind in regard to his explanation. Apparently she was not eager; the eagerness was his own--he was eager to explain. He recognised, not without a certain consciousness of magnanimity in doing so, that there had been some reason for her quick withdrawal from his studio or at any rate for her extreme discomposure there. He had a few days before put in a plea for a snatch of worship in that sanctuary and she had accepted and approved it; but the worship, when the curtain happened to blow back, showed for that of a magnificent young woman, an actress with disordered hair, who wore in a singular degree the appearance of a person settled for many hours. The explanation was easy: it dwelt in the simple truth that when one was painting, even very badly and only for a moment, one had to have models. Nick was impatient to give it with frank, affectionate lips and a full, pleasant admission that it was natural Julia should have been startled; and he was the more impatient that, though he would not in the least have expected her to like finding a strange woman intimately installed with him, she had disliked it even more than would have seemed probable or natural. That was because, not having heard from him about the matter, the impression was for the moment irresistible with her that a trick had been played her. But three minutes with him alone would make the difference. They would indeed have a considerable difference to make, Nick reflected, as minutes much more numerous elapsed without bringing Mrs. Dallow home. For he had said to the butler that he would come in and wait--though it was odd she should not have left a message for him: she would doubtless return from one moment to the other. He had of course full licence to wait anywhere he preferred; and he was ushered into Julia's particular sitting-room and supplied with tea and the evening papers. After a quarter of an hour, however, he gave little attention to these beguilements, thanks to his feeling still more acutely that since she definitely knew he was coming she might have taken the trouble to be at home. He walked up and down and looked out of the window, took up her books and dropped them again, and then, as half an hour had elapsed, became aware he was really sore. What could she be about when, with London a thankless void, she was of course not paying visits? A footman came in to attend to the fire, whereupon Nick questioned him as to the manner in which she was possibly engaged. The man disclosed the fact that his mistress had gone out but a quarter of an hour before Nick's arrival, and, as if appreciating the opportunity for a little decorous conversation, gave him still more information than he invited. From this it appeared that, as Nick knew, or could surmise, she had the evening before, from the country, wired for the victoria to meet her in the morning at Paddington and then gone straight from the station to the studio, while her maid, with her luggage, proceeded in a cab to Great Stanhope Street. On leaving the studio, however, she had not come directly home; she had chosen this unusual season for an hour's drive in the Park. She had finally re-entered her house, but had remained upstairs all day, seeing no one and not coming down to luncheon. At four o'clock she had ordered the brougham for four forty-five, and had got into it punctually, saying, "To the Park!" as she did so. Nick, after the footman had left him, made what he could of Julia's sudden passion for the banks of the Serpentine, forsaken and foggy now, inasmuch as the afternoon had come on grey and the light was waning. She usually hated the Park and hated a closed carriage. He had a gruesome vision of her, shrunken into a corner of her brougham and veiled as if in consequence of tears, revolving round the solitude of the Drive. She had of course been deeply displeased and was not herself; the motion of the carriage soothed her, had an effect on her nerves. Nick remembered that in the morning, at his door, she had

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

them

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

men

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

heavy

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

advance

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

humoured

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

starts

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

festive

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

long

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

starry

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

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you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

look

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

whirling

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

around

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

own

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

pans

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

again

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

stop

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

how

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

kids

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

you? FINNEGAN Sure I do...I give a shit that at 0300 hour we reach our point of destination. I give a shit that those mojos got to do what they got to do, and 45 minutes later we are turn around and gone. I give a shit that by the time the sun comes up we are all safely tucked in bed. PANTUCCI That's it? That's all you give a shit about? FINNEGAN Oh yeah...and that my stitch job doesn't make you uglier than you already are...this won't hurt a bit... Finnegan sinks the needle into the wound. Pantucci's SCREAM rises above the music. CUT TO: 42 FUJI MARU - NIGHT 42 The Fuji Maru cruises through RAIN-LASHED waters. Accompanied by a very scary MUSICAL SCORE. Then suddenly, in the extreme foreground, AIR BUBBLES angrily GURGLE to the surface. Then a WAVE EXPLODES, as if THRASHED from below. Then another WAVE EXPLODES, forty feet to the right. Then ANOTHER, eighty feet to the left. And then ALMOST SEEN: Huge, black, ominous THINGS seem to be SQUIRMING beneath the water. Heading for the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 43 CRYSTAL FOREDECK - NIGHT 43 RAIN PELTS the canopy. LIGHTNING FLASHES. THUNDER RUMBLES. We can HEAR the PARTY inside. MUSIC, laughs and cheers. CUT TO: 44 THE BRIDGE - NIGHT 44 The entire ROOM seems to be FRITZING OUT. The lights crackle on and off. The Captain stands behind the bank of failing IMAGING SYSTEMS, growing edgier by the moment. MATE The entire bridge electrical system is shutting down sir! CAPTAIN Switch over to auxiliary power, and run a circuit check. MATE Yes sir... The COM. OFFICER is busy fiddling with the communications and imaging gear. DISTORTED LIGHTS from the scrambled systems plays off their faces. COM. OFFICER We're losing radar and sonar! FIRST MATE Communications systems are out sir! The Captain is confounded, on the edge of panic. Canton hurries onto the bridge. CANTON What the hell is going on? CAPTAIN Communication systems have failed! Radar...sonar...radios...I don't understand it. MATE Maybe it's the storm! CANTON Nonsense! We're impervious to weather! FIST MATE We have a main frame meltdown!! CANTON Well unmelt it!! Canton storms out. Every piece of electrical equipment on the bridge starts to shut down. SMASH CUT TO: 45 HULL - NIGHT 45 Where the waves meet the hull, A BALLAST HOLE excretes water. Suddenly, near the ballast hole, a WAVE EXPLODES, thrashed from below. Accompanied by the scary foreboding MUSIC again. CUT TO: 46 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 46 Trillian, making the best of a bad situation, is just putting the finishing touches on a wonderful salad culled from the stores. As she sits down, spreading a makeshift napkin on her lap just so, a violent SUCKING SOUND comes from above her. Trillian's eyes shoot upward. A VICIOUS GURGLING SOUND RACES through a large PIPE along the ceiling. Trillian leaps to her feet. Backs away. A little spooked. CUT TO: 47 STATEROOM BATHROOM - NIGHT 47 An elegant woman sits on the toilet, her gown hiked up inelegantly, reading "Vogue." As she turns the page the same strange sound, a violent sucking, comes from inside the walls, startling her. She looks around the room. Can't see anything. Shrugs it off. Goes back to her magazine. Turns another page. A LONG SCARY BEAT. And then suddenly -- She SHUDDERS VIOLENTLY and gives a sharp CRY. Her eyes filled panic. She tries to stand, but she's JERKED BACK DOWN! Her ARMS FLAIL WILDLY. Scattering stuff off the counter. She tries to SCREAM, but it comes out more like a GURGLE. Below her, in the TOILET, there is a hideous SLURPING SOUND. She manages a final, desperate scream, a high-pitched WAIL. Which nobody hears because... CUT TO: 48 POOL DECK - NIGHT 48 ...the Band has kicked into another ROCK SONG. The drunken revelers whoop and holler, dancing with reckless abandon ignoring the THUNDER and LIGHTNING. And then...with a loud BASSO PROFUNDO CLANG, the CRUISE LINER JERKS TO A STOP. EVERYTHING goes CRASH. PEOPLE TUMBLE. TABLES TOPPLE. The MUSIC STOPS as the entire Band falls into the pool. CUT TO: 49 VEGETABLE STORAGE - NIGHT 49 Trillian goes ass-over-teacups, rolling over just in time to see a wall of BOXES CRASHING straight down on her. SMASH! She's knocked out cold. CUT TO: 50 WATERSPORT PLATFORM - NIGHT 50 One of the SPEEDBOATS breaks free of its harness. TOPPLES over the side and drops down into the sea. SPLASH! CUT TO: 51 POOL DECK - NIGHT 51 Everything goes quiet. Everybody freezes. Panic is a heartbeat away. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING lights up the top of the canopy. The passengers begin to mutter fearfully. From his perch, Canton fights down his own panic, and addresses the crowd in calm reassuring tones. CANTON Ladies and gentlemen...your attention please... Ladies and gentlemen... The disquieted crowd turns to Canton. CANTON (CONT'D) This is the most technologically advanced sailing vessel on the water today. Every problem has been anticipated...the Captain has assured me that we will be up and running in no time...so enjoy yourselves...there's nothing to worry about... Suddenly, and quite violently, a WOMAN is SUCKED UNDER THE WATER -- THWUP! Others swimmers notice and freeze. The Woman doesn't come back up. And then, THREE more SWIMMERS are violently JERKED UNDER. All the people in and around the pool see this and panic. SCREAMING. YELLING. SWIMMING. SWIMMING and RUNNING. A CRACK OF THUNDER! The Captain calls out -- CAPTAIN Remain calm! Stop! Do you hear? REMAIN CALM! The pool clears. Everybody backs the hell away from it. The WATER in the pool BUBBLES, and GURGLES, and then goes quiet. And then, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, comes a loud, eerie, primordial YOWL. WE PUSH IN ON CANTON: His eyes slowly widen. Stunned. His calm replaced by pure terror. CANTON Dear God. CUT TO: 52 SOUTH CHINA SEA - NIGHT 52 Off in the distance is the cruiseliner. WE HOLD FOR A LONG, SILENT, EERIE BEAT. And then the SCREAMING begins... SLOW DISSOLVE TO: 53 SAIPAN - NIGHT 53 Blasting through increasingly stormy seas. CUT TO: 54 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 54 Finnegan notices Billy, Mulligan and Vivo setting two catapult like devices on the front of the deck. FINNEGAN Leila see what they're up to... Leila exits. Finnegan's eyes go up from the action on deck to the radar screen, where a blip, fast moving, right toward the jet foil catches his attention. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) What the hell... SMASH CUT TO: 55 SAIPAN - NIGHT 55 A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS -- The speedboat from the Fuji Maru hurtling at the hull! BAAROOOOM!!! The speedboat slams into the Saipan. Instant FIREBALL. ANGLE ON: The mercs and Leila slammed to the deck. SMASH CUT TO: 56 HOLD - NIGHT 56 A GASH is RIPPED out of the bow. METAL FLIES. WATER SPRAYS. The new HOLE VOMITS FLAME. Spewing it over the crates. Hanover and the rest of his men are blown against the walls. CUT TO: 57 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 57 Pantucci DIVES as flying SHRAPNEL PEPPERS the two engines. Instantly kills one engine. Maims the other. A FIRE starts. CUT TO: 58 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 58 RED WARNING LIGHTS flash and blink. Lighting up the console. The left steering stick dies in Finnegan's hand. FINNEGAN Joey!! Talk to me! CUT TO: 59 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 59 Mayhem... Fire spews out of the engines. Pantucci sprays a fire extinguisher frantically. Where the shrapnel entered the hull water now spurts with every wave. Smoke and water, oil and fire. PANTUCCI Jezebel's dead...Hercules is right behind her! We got a gusher in the hull! CUT TO: 60 PILOT HOUSE - NIGHT 60 As the Saipan comes to a halt, Finnegan loses play in his remaining stick. FINNEGAN Shit!! Finnegan locks the sticks down, and runs out. CUT TO: 61 HOLD - NIGHT 61 TRACK WITH Finnegan running through the smoke filled hold, past Hanover and the merc's who are pulling themselves off the floor, right into the... ENGINE ROOM. Where Pantucci is beside himself in smoke and sputtering flame. PANTUCCI What did you do to my kids!! FINNEGAN Me?? PANTUCCI No! The man in the moon!! Who's driving this thing? Finnegan notices something on the floor. He picks up a shard of the speedboat propeller. Strange. Hanover steps into the room. HANOVER What happened? Finnegan looks at the piece of speedboat in his hand. FINNEGAN We ran into a speedboat... He shows the piece of speed boat to Hanover. Who stares at it. Finnegan sees the hint of recognition in his eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Speedboat in the middle of the ocean... HANOVER How soon can we get up and running? FINNEGAN We can't...we got one engine dead, and the other limping badly. HANOVER I have a schedule... PANTUCCI I spent two years building these things...screw your schedule! Mason grabs Pantucci by the throat, lifting him off the ground. MASON You little weasel! Finnegan slams the piece of speed boat into the back of Mason's knees buckling him to the floor. In the blink of an eye there is the barrel of a .45 pressed hard against his head, Hanover at the trigger end. HANOVER We were talking about my schedule... FINNEGAN You're going to have to get a new one. HANOVER Not an option. FINNEGAN Then you better start swimming. Hanover cracks Finnegan across the face with the barrel of the gun. Finnegan's head spins. He touches the corner of his mouth, and comes away with blood, and a look of murder in his eyes. Hanover slams a round in the chamber. HANOVER One more joke and your comedy career is over. Now fix this. PANTUCCI With what? Look at them...they need gears...cylinder heads...oil pans... we're in the middle of the goddamn ocean... FINNEGAN I think he knows that Joey. PANTUCCI Good! So maybe he also know where the hell am I going to get the parts I need... Mulligan comes running in. MULLIGAN Target in sight!! CUT TO: 62 SAIPAN - NIGHT 62 Everybody stands on deck as Hanover scans the darkness through a pair of infrared binoculars. HANOVER Contact verified! You know the drill gentlemen! The merc's scatter below deck. Hanover hands the binoculars to Finnegan. HANOVER (CONT'D) Care to see what dreams are made of Finnegan? Finnegan's POV through the binoculars. The Fuji Maru in the distance, lit up, beautiful. CUT TO: 63 DECK - NIGHT 63 BAM! BAM! Two grappling hooks fly from the barrels of the two catapults bolted to the deck, landing on the deck of the Fuji Maru, which looms above the Saipan. Vivo pulls on the lines until they go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Leila stand by watching as the mercs in full assault gear, communication headsets in place, get ready for action. VIVO Lines set. Mason swivels the big HARPOON GUN on the bow. MASON Tow lines! VIVO Clear! He FIRES the HARPOON. It shoots and SLAMS into the rear deck of the Fuji Maru. MASON Tow line secure. HANOVER Secure the zone of operation!! Swift, athletic, the mercs leap onto the lines and scramble hand over hand toward the Fuji Maru's deck. HANOVER (CONT'D) When I was a little bit of a pissant we lived down the road from where all the big cruise ships used to come into Sydney harbor... The first mercs reach the Fuji Maru's deck, and toss life lines down to Hanover. HANOVER (CONT'D) Mum and me we used to sit by our front door and watch them...she used to say "one day you're going to make your fortune in life on one of them..." Hanover hands one line to Finnegan, one to Pantucci. The third he attaches around his waist. FINNEGAN Great woman your mother. Real foresight. HANOVER And she could do a hell of a barbie to boot! Belt up. You'll find all the parts you need up there. Finnegan and Pantucci comply. FINNEGAN I assume somebody up there has made sure no distress signal can be sent. HANOVER I'd say that's a pretty good assumption. PANTUCCI (nervous) You know the crew could be armed. HANOVER With what? Martinis and tanning oil? Hanover hand signals to his men above. The lines go taut. Finnegan, Pantucci, and Hanover are hoisted to the deck of the Fuji Maru. CUT TO: 64 FUJI MARU DECK - NIGHT 64 Deathly silent. Not a soul is about. The mercs are deployed in a close military defense pattern. HANOVER Synchronize watches... Everyone hits a button on their watches. HANOVER (CONT'D) 25 minutes...by the numbers. Engine room and machine shop are on the third sub deck...Vivo...Mulligan go with them...keep in touch...move out... CUT TO: 65 SAIPAN ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 65 A thick black hose weaves it's way across the flooded floor, sucking water. Leila up to her knees in water, wearing a blast visor, stripped down to her skivvies, wields a welder against the gaping hole in the hull. As the boat dips in the waves water sloshes in. Billy sits on the stairs trying to stay dry. He goes to light a cigarette. LEILA (angry) Kwan bat! Kwam bat! Booom!! She points the acetalyne tank she works with. BILLY (bothered) Yeah...yeah...yeah... Billy heads for the deck. Leila looks after him in disgust. LEILA Asshole... She ignites her torch, is about to flick her visor down again when a loud gurgling, a sucking sound, stops her. She cuts the torch. Looks around nervously...and then she spots the suction hose sucking away. She smiles to herself. Flips the visor, fires the torch, and goes back to work. CUT TO: 66 FUJI MARU DECK PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT 66 An alert Mulligan leads Finnegan and Pantucci around a corner. Vivo brings up the rear. PANTUCCI You'd think they'd set a deck watch... FLASH TO: The deck full of people partying, carousing. The railing is lined with 15 lifeboats suspended in their harnesses. FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Finnegan, Pantucci and Vivo staring at a completely deserted deck. The lifeboat harnesses swing in the breeze, eerily empty. Mulligan looks back to Vivo. MULLIGAN I thought the plan was we'd evacuate them after we got through. VIVO Maybe plans changed... MULLIGAN Plans don't change... PANTUCCI Maybe it's the wrong ship. MULLIGAN Shut up! And then a strange yowl echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. Finnegan and Pantucci trade a look. FINNEGAN Let's just keep going. MULLIGAN (nervous) You ain't giving the orders here! And again the yowl. Everyone freezes. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Let's keep going! CUT TO: 67 CRYSTAL POOL DECK - NIGHT 67 Hanover, Mason, and Chin set foot on the deserted pool deck. FLASH TO: The pool deck is jammed with people partying. The band playing. Two kids toss a beach ball back and forth. The ball flies over one boy's head... FLASH BACK TO: The ball falls into the empty pool...Where the band's instruments litter the bottom along a big jagged crack. MASON What the... Uneasy, Hanover and his men look around at the over turned chairs. The smashed aquarium. Chin bends down and picks up a small squid from the bottom of the smashed aquarium. The squid wraps its tentacles around Chin's hand almost immediately. Chin regards it with curiosity. HANOVER Focus on the task Mr. Chin... ...and then the yowl freezes them. C.U. on Hanover's face. His eyes flicker with uncertainty...and a tinge of fear. CUT TO: 68 GRAND ATRIUM LOBBY - NIGHT 68 DING! FLASH TO: A glass elevator descending through the spectacular atrium, full of elegant well-dressed people laughing, chatting. DING! FLASH BACK TO: Mulligan, Vivo, Pantucci, and Finnegan, standing amidst the shattered glass and broken furniture, whirling to the elevator door opening. Mulligan, nerves ajangle, and Vivo, swing their pulse rifles up hard as the door opens to reveal...and empty elevator! DING! The door closes. The car starts to ascend in the eerie silence. The mercs watch it go with growing uneasiness. CUT TO: 69 FUJI MARU BRIDGE - DAWN 69 The door to the bridge is KICKED OPEN. Mason and Chin leap inside. Guns out front. On edge. The overhead lights flicker on and off. The imager screens are all black. The STEERING WHEEL slowly ROCKS. As if an invisible captain is steering a ghost ship. Hanover ENTERS. Eyes shifting. Suspicious, and a bit nervous. HANOVER What the hell is going on? CUT TO: 70 THE FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - DAWN 70 Mulligan leads Finnegan, Pantucci, Vivo into the casino. The place looks like a mess. Tables and chairs are upended. Glasses and bottles are shattered everywhere. And there's BLOOD on the floor. A BELL RINGS LOUDLY and the TROLLEY CAR STARTS TO MOVE! ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Chinatown! Everyone jumps, freaked. Mulligan and Vivo spin around and OPEN FIRE. Start BLOWING the shit out of the TROLLEY CAR. The GUNS sound like nothing we've ever heard. ROLLING THUNDER. Absolutely deafening. CUT TO: 71 FUJI MARU - DAY 71 The GUNFIRE ECHOES through the hull. Suddenly, with a loud SPLASH, a sixteen-foot-long LIFEBOAT pops to the surface. Then another LIFE BOAT POPS UP. Then ANOTHER. Then THREE MORE off to the port side. Then TWO MORE off to the starboard. It's as if the SOUND of the GUNFIRE is somehow releasing the boats from their watery graves. They start to drift away. Spooky quiet. CUT TO: 72 FRISCO BAR AND CASINO - NIGHT 72 BULLETS RAKE the Trolley's metal sides. The WINDSHIELD EXPLODES. Finnegan yells at Mulligan and Vivo -- FINNEGAN Guys!! Whoa! WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAA!! Finnegan finally tilts the muzzle of Mulligan's gun to the ceiling. They stop firing. A little wigged-out. Their professional demeanor going by the boards. All goes quiet. They look at Finnegan, who is the picture of calm. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) Guys...get a grip. The Trolley car reverses. The ELECTRONIC VOICE is now CRACKED -- ELECTRONIC VOICE Next stop, Fisherman's Wharf. Mulligan whirls, his gun poised. Just then his headset crackles. HANOVER (V.O.) (radio filtered) This is Red One...status report. Finnegan leans in towards Mulligan's mike. FINNEGAN (into radio) Your boys just killed a trolley car Red One. Mulligan pulls the radio away. MULLIGAN (into radio) We been down three decks, there's nobody home... Total spooky-town. Advise on how to proceed. CUT TO: 73 CONNING TOWER - NIGHT 73 Hanover looks around at the empty bridge, the blinking lights. HANOVER Stay to the schedule. Stay to the plan. Nothing has changed. But the look in Hanover's slightly unnerved eyes tells a different story. CUT TO: 74 FUGI MARU STORAGE ROOM - DAY 74 Trillian goggily crawls out from under a mound of boxes. Her left eye's got a nice purple shiner. Her elegant gown is ripped. A VERY STRANGE SOUND coming from behind the wall. Wet. Gooey. Slithery. Ominous. Trillian freezes. TRILLIAN Hello? The SOUND slowly MOVES across the wall. Then another WALL starts to GURGLE. Trillian spins around. She forces herself not to panic. Very cautiously, taking small measured steps she reaches the handle to the freezer, and tries to open it. No go. The gurgling ripples above her. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes follow the sound across the ceiling. Her hand goes to her hair. She pulls her lock pick out, and very slowly kneels down until she is eye level with the door lock. She begins to pick her way out, her ears and eyes following the gurgling above. Suddenly the sound stops. The silence makes Trillian's heart sound that much louder. She sidles close to the wall. TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Hello? Still silence. Cautious, she taps on the wall. For a moment nothing. And then... WHAMM!! Something slams against the wall from the other side in response. Trillian falls back against the door, her heart in her throat. CUT TO: 75 ENGINE CHAMBERS - DAY 75 A MAZE of pipes, hoses, gears, engines and catwalks. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING, RUMBLING and CLANKING. A spooky place. Dark. Damp. Eerie. Ominous. Mulligan and Vivo, looking more nervous by the moment, lead the way. Finnegan and Pantucci follow. PANTUCCI (rattling, nervous) You know what I'm gonna do after this...I'm gonna get a normal life... FINNEGAN (calm) Joey... PANTUCCI ...Like a house in the suburbs... maybe a couple of kids...some sort of business...be in the bowling league...go to the ball games... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, his voice even, calm, almost kind. FINNEGAN Joey...it's okay... PANTUCCI What? You don't think I can have a normal life? FINNEGAN Joey...look at me... He forces Pantucci to look him in the eyes. FINNEGAN (CONT'D) We're gonna get what we gotta get... do what we gotta do...and get the hell outta here...okay? Pantucci draws his strength from Finnegan. He forces himself to take a deep breath. PANTUCCI Okay... Suddenly, overhead, something black and veiny skitters across the mass of pipes, so fast it shocks Pantucci back into the wall. MULLIGAN What the...??? He and Vivo spin their guns at the pipes. The red dots of their laser sights sweep the shadowy web of metal. Nothing. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Come on...the sooner we get outta here the better I'll feel. Mulligan and Vivo move forward. PANTUCCI (quiet) Finnegan... Finnegan turns to Pantucci, who has not moved from where he hit the wall. FINNEGAN It's okay...come on... PANTUCCI (scared) I'm stuck... Pantucci tries to pull away from the wall. He is stuck. MULLIGAN (jumpy) Hey! What are you trying to pull! PANTUCCI (pleading) John... Finnegan takes Pantucci by the front of his shirt, ignoring Mulligan. FINNEGAN Relax your arms...slowly...that's it... As Finnegan pulls, Pantucci does as he is told. He slips away from the wall. The jacket doesn't. MULLIGAN What the... He reaches out to touch the wall. Finnegan grabs his wrist, grabs a flashlight from Vivo's utility belt and shines it on the wall. Their POV -- the entire wall is covered in a strange, yellow, secreted GELATIN. Laid on in some sort of weird, inhuman, geometric pattern. Like a spider web. CUT TO: 76 THE SAIPAN'S HOLD - DAY 76 Leila has welded half the hole shut. A GUSH OF WATER suddenly pours through the other half. Leila cuts the torch. LEILA Gebop!! The KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP is like a loud scary HEARTBEAT. Leila removes her blast visor. Wipes her brow. -- A MANGLED CORPSE GUSHES IN through the gaping hole! LEILA SCREAMS. Bloody murder. Scared shitless. Quickly backs away. Actually, it's only half a corpse. The bottom half having been eaten away. It's wearing a tuxedo. The corpse's face is tightly constricted, eyes wide open, a grotesque death mask. Leila shakes like a leaf, waist-deep in seawater. CUT TO: 77 SAIPAN DECK - NIGHT 77 Billy is staring out at all the lifeboats as they drift away. All he can hear is the loud KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK of the PUMP. He talks into his headset -- BILLY (into radio) I dunno where they came from, turned around and there they were. (pause) No, no passengers. (pause) No shit I'll keep my eyes open. CUT TO: 78 ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT 78 Leila trembles in the waist-high water. The PUMP'S HEARTBEAT seems to have gotten louder. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Leila slowly starts edging her way around the corpse. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her eyes are transfixed, staring at the abomination, too scared to scream. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Her back is to the gaping hole as she slowly starts to pass in front of it. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. The water swirls around her waist. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. She's almost past the gaping hole now. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK... Then something grabs her! She SCREAMS! And falls back towards the gaping hole -- But it's only a twisted piece of metal off a strut. She exhales. Relieved. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. Suddenly, LEILA'S whole body SPASMS. She SCREECHES wildly, in great pain. The she's RIPPED backward out through the gaping hole. Gone. WATER SLOSHES back in. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK. CUT TO: 79 FUJI MARU MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 79 Knee deep in water, an edgy Mulligan watches Finnegan as he disassembles pieces of a thermal carburetor from an auxiliary generator. His eyes keep shifting around. Over in the far corner Vivo is watching Pantucci working over a metal lathe, repairing the cylinder head. Metal-on-metal. Vivo sits up on a barrel, trying to keep his feet out of the water. FINNEGAN The hulls of these things are supposed to be impregnable... MULLIGAN So? FINNEGAN So...If the hull's impregnable why are my feet wet? MULLIGAN Why don't you just stop figuring and keep working so we can get the hell out of here? PANTUCCI Why don't you help us so we can get done faster so we can get the hell out of here? MULLIGAN 'Cause grease monkey ain't in my job description dick head... Vivo pulls his feet further up on the barrel. VIVO What I want to know is why the goddamn ocean is always cold...since I'm a kid I hate god damn cold water. Then out of the corner of his eye, Vivo sees SOMETHING MOVE. He spins around. Nothing but pipes and hoses. MULLIGAN (nervous) What was that? VIVO Nothing. MULLIGAN Someone's back there. VIVO Hey! Come out here! Finnegan and Pantucci stop working. All eyes are focused on the maze of pipes. THINGS are HISSING, HUMMING and RUMBLING. Nothing moves. MULLIGAN Check it out! VIVO Hey! You hear me? Come out! Still no response. MULLIGAN Will you check it the hell out!! Disgusted, Vivo puts his feet in the water, gingerly. VIVO Man this shit is cold! He walks toward the mass of hissing pipes. His pulse rifle rising. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm gonna kick your ass for putting me through this... Then he hears a strange SLURPING and SUCKING SOUND coming from behind some gears at the end of a little alleyway. VIVO (CONT'D) I'm not screwing around with you man...I hate the cold water. MULLIGAN What is it man? VIVO I'm looking... Vivo slowly goes in for a closer look, gun out front, heading down the little alleyway. He looks behind some pipes. The SLURPING gets LOUDER. Then he sees it. His eyes widen -- VIVO (CONT'D) On shit! And that's the last thing he ever says. Because just then, from a dark area between the pipes, SOMETHING SHOOTS OUT! Mulligan, Finnegan, and Pantucci stare in horrified amazement as Vivo is viciously YANKED into the pipes. A moment later a WASH OF BLOOD is FLUNG across a wall. Mulligan freaks out, aims his rifle at the pipes. MULLIGAN Vivo!! Vivo!! As Mulligan's attention diverts, Finnegan instinctively heads for Vivo's rifle, lying on the floor. Mulligan swings around. KACHUNK!! His rifle is armed. The laser dot fixes on Finnegan's forehead. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Touch it and you're dead, asshole! Finnegan freezes, looking up at a very freaked out Mulligan. PANTUCCI Don't shoot, man, don't shoot! MULLIGAN What happened to Vivo?! What the hell happened to Vivo? Everybody's breathing hard. Freaked out. Major tension. Blood drips down the wall. CUT TO: 80 VAULT ROOM - NIGHT 80 Trillian steps up to the vault, looking around, a bit nervous, something is definitely not right here. TRILLIAN Helloooo? She shrugs, must be her imagination. From inside her low cut dress she pulls the Captain's gold security card. She is about to run it through the reader slot when... V.O. Ahem... She spins to...Hanover, Mason, Mamooli and Chin. Looking grim. TRILLIAN (recovering) I'm sorry... This area is for authorized personnel only. As the assistant to the Purser, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate... Mason and Chin lift their pulse-rifles. KACHUNK!! TRILLIAN (CONT'D) Or maybe not. HANOVER Where is everybody? Trillian is confused -- TRILLIAN What do you mean? Hanover steps forward, right in her face. HANOVER (threatening) I mean...where is everybody? TRILLIAN Poolside? Hanover grabs Trillian by the throat and slams her against the wall. He rams his gun against her forehead. HANOVER You tell it straight or I pull the trigger. Who are you? TRILLIAN (choking) A passenger... Hanover blinks. HANOVER Where are the other passengers? Trillian shrugs. Mason grabs the card out of her hand. MASON Forget her...let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here! Mason runs the card through the slot. The ELECTRONICS KICK IN. LIGHTS FLASH. TUMBLERS ROLL. CLICK! It unlocks. Hanover's HEADSET comes alive with Mulligan SCREAMING. HANOVER Mulligan?? What?? I can't hear you?? Repeat I... -- Mason JERKS the vault door open. A FIRE-AXE SWING DOWN into his head, WHUMP! Kills him instantly. Eyes wide open. Everybody freaks out. Jumps back. Hanover lets go of Trillian, and stares into the vault directly at Nigel Canton. Holding the axe. CANTON Oh my God. I didn't mean to... Behind Canton the Captain is on the floor, in severe pain, his clothes are ripped up, REVEALING nasty looking RED SCARS, blistered and puffy, all over his chest and arms. CANTON (CONT'D) I thought it was one of them! Chin jams his rifle to the middle of Canton's forehead, and cocks a round into the chamber. HANOVER Stand down soldier! But this is one soldier who is slow to obey the order. Hanover grabs Chin by both shoulders and gives a colossal yank. HANOVER (CONT'D) I said... He slams Chin against the wall. In the process he loses his headset. HANOVER (CONT'D) Stand down!! Chin and Hanover stare at each other, their chests heaving. Mason finally drops to the ground. All she wrote. CANTON I didn't mean to! I though it was one of them! HANOVER One of who?! CUT TO: 81 MACHINE SHOP - NIGHT 81 The machinery is sputtering, and sparking, shorting, steaming as the sea rises. Mulligan, in a panic, has backed Finnegan and Pantucci into a corner. He screams over his headset. MULLIGAN Hanover!...Hanover! Come in! Come in you son-of-a-bitch! No response. A sucking sound comes from the dark mass of pipes. Mulligan spins. MULLIGAN (CONT'D) Hanover!! Hanover!! FINNEGAN Forget them... Mulligan spins back to Finnegan and Pantucci. MULLIGAN (fried) Shut up! You hear me!! FINNEGAN ...we gotta get outta here -- NOW. MULLIGAN Shut up,

storm

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

sketch

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

its

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young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

hushed

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

artistic

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

among

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

generally

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

apparently

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

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young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

oracle

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young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

job

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

camouflage

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

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young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

city

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

magnanimous

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

mrs.

How many times the word 'mrs.' appears in the text?

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

extravagant

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

float

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

cousin

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

young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

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young man. "Pray should you think it better for a gentleman to be an actor?" "Better than being a politician? Ah, comedian for comedian, isn't the actor more honest?" Lady Agnes turned to her son and brought forth with spirit: "Think of your great father, Nicholas!" "He was an honest man," said Nicholas. "That's perhaps why he couldn't stand it." Peter Sherringham judged the colloquy to have taken an uncomfortable twist, though not wholly, as it seemed to him, by the act of Nick's queer comrade. To draw it back to safer ground he said to this personage: "May I ask if the ladies you just spoke of are English--Mrs. and Miss Rooth: isn't that the rather odd name?" "The very same. Only the daughter, according to her kind, desires to be known by some _nom de guerre_ before she has even been able to enlist." "And what does she call herself?" Bridget Dormer asked. "Maud Vavasour, or Edith Temple, or Gladys Vane--some rubbish of that sort." "What then is her own name?" "Miriam--Miriam Rooth. It would do very well and would give her the benefit of the prepossessing fact that--to the best of my belief at least--she's more than half a Jewess." "It is as good as Rachel Felix," Sherringham said. "The name's as good, but not the talent. The girl's splendidly stupid." "And more than half a Jewess? Don't you believe it!" Sherringham laughed. "Don't believe she's a Jewess?" Biddy asked, still more interested in Miriam Rooth. "No, no--that she's stupid, really. If she is she'll be the first." "Ah you may judge for yourself," Nash rejoined, "if you'll come to-morrow afternoon to Madame Carr , Rue de Constantinople, _ l'entresol_." "Madame Carr ? Why, I've already a note from her--I found it this morning on my return to Paris--asking me to look in at five o'clock and listen to a _jeune Anglaise_." "That's my arrangement--I obtained the favour. The ladies want an opinion, and dear old Carr has consented to see them and to give one. Maud Vavasour will recite, and the venerable artist will pass judgement." Sherringham remembered he had his note in his pocket and took it out to look it over. "She wishes to make her a little audience--she says she'll do better with that--and she asks me because I'm English. I shall make a point of going." "And bring Dormer if you can: the audience will be better. Will you come, Dormer?" Mr. Nash continued, appealing to his friend--"will you come with me to hear an English amateur recite and an old French actress pitch into her?" Nick looked round from his talk with his mother and Grace. "I'll go anywhere with you so that, as I've told you, I mayn't lose sight of you--may keep hold of you." "Poor Mr. Nash, why is he so useful?" Lady Agnes took a cold freedom to inquire. "He steadies me, mother." "Oh I wish you'd take _me_, Peter," Biddy broke out wistfully to her cousin. "To spend an hour with an old French actress? Do _you_ want to go upon the stage?" the young man asked. "No, but I want to see something--to know something." "Madame Carr 's wonderful in her way, but she's hardly company for a little English girl." "I'm not little, I'm only too big; and _she_ goes, the person you speak of." "For a professional purpose and with her good mother," smiled Mr. Nash. "I think Lady Agnes would hardly venture----!" "Oh I've seen her good mother!" said Biddy as if she had her impression of what the worth of that protection might be. "Yes, but you haven't heard her. It's then that you measure her." Biddy was wistful still. "Is it the famous Honorine Carr , the great celebrity?" "Honorine in person: the incomparable, the perfect!" said Peter Sherringham. "The first artist of our time, taking her altogether. She and I are old pals; she has been so good as to come and 'say' things--which she does sometimes still _dans le monde_ as no one else _can_--- in my rooms." "Make her come then. We can go _there_!" "One of these days!" "And the young lady--Miriam, Maud, Gladys--make her come too." Sherringham looked at Nash and the latter was bland. "Oh you'll have no difficulty. She'll jump at it!" "Very good. I'll give a little artistic tea--with Julia too of course. And you must come, Mr. Nash." This gentleman promised with an inclination, and Peter continued: "But if, as you say, you're not for helping the young lady, how came you to arrange this interview with the great model?" "Precisely to stop her short. The great model will find her very bad. Her judgements, as you probably know, are Rhadamanthine." "Unfortunate creature!" said Biddy. "I think you're cruel." "Never mind--I'll look after them," Sherringham laughed. "And how can Madame Carr judge if the girl recites English?" "She's so intelligent that she could judge if she recited Chinese," Peter declared. "That's true, but the _jeune Anglaise_ recites also in French," said Gabriel Nash. "Then she isn't stupid." "And in Italian, and in several more tongues, for aught I know." Sherringham was visibly interested. "Very good--we'll put her through them all." "She must be _most_ clever," Biddy went on yearningly. "She has spent her life on the Continent; she has wandered about with her mother; she has picked up things." "And is she a lady?" Biddy asked. "Oh tremendous! The great ones of the earth on the mother's side. On the father's, on the other hand, I imagine, only a Jew stockbroker in the City." "Then they're rich--or ought to be," Sherringham suggested. "Ought to be--ah there's the bitterness! The stockbroker had too short a go--he was carried off in his flower. However, he left his wife a certain property, which she appears to have muddled away, not having the safeguard of being herself a Hebrew. This is what she has lived on till to-day--this and another resource. Her husband, as she has often told me, had the artistic temperament: that's common, as you know, among _ces messieurs_. He made the most of his little opportunities and collected various pictures, tapestries, enamels, porcelains, and similar gewgaws. He parted with them also, I gather, at a profit; in short he carried on a neat little business as a _brocanteur_. It was nipped in the bud, but Mrs. Rooth was left with a certain number of these articles in her hands; indeed they must have formed her only capital. She was not a woman of business; she turned them, no doubt, to indifferent account; but she sold them piece by piece, and they kept her going while her daughter grew up. It was to this precarious traffic, conducted with extraordinary mystery and delicacy, that, five years ago, in Florence, I was indebted for my acquaintance with her. In those days I used to collect--heaven help me!--I used to pick up rubbish which I could ill afford. It was a little phase--we have our little phases, haven't we?" Mr. Nash asked with childlike trust--"and I've come out on the other side. Mrs. Rooth had an old green pot and I heard of her old green pot. To hear of it was to long for it, so that I went to see it under cover of night. I bought it and a couple of years ago I overturned and smashed it. It was the last of the little phase. It was not, however, as you've seen, the last of Mrs. Rooth. I met her afterwards in London, and I found her a year or two ago in Venice. She appears to be a great wanderer. She had other old pots, of other colours, red, yellow, black, or blue--she could produce them of any complexion you liked. I don't know whether she carried them about with her or whether she had little secret stores in the principal cities of Europe. To-day at any rate they seem all gone. On the other hand she has her daughter, who has grown up and who's a precious vase of another kind--less fragile I hope than the rest. May she not be overturned and smashed!" Peter Sherringham and Biddy Dormer listened with attention to this history, and the girl testified to the interest with which she had followed it by saying when Mr. Nash had ceased speaking: "A Jewish stockbroker, a dealer in curiosities: what an odd person to marry--for a person who was well born! I daresay he was a German." "His name must have been simply Roth, and the poor lady, to smarten it up, has put in another _o_," Sherringham ingeniously suggested. "You're both very clever," said Gabriel, "and Rudolf Roth, as I happen to know, was indeed the designation of Maud Vavasour's papa. But so far as the question of derogation goes one might as well drown as starve--for what connexion is _not_ a misalliance when one happens to have the unaccommodating, the crushing honour of being a Neville-Nugent of Castle Nugent? That's the high lineage of Maud's mamma. I seem to have heard it mentioned that Rudolf Roth was very versatile and, like most of his species, not unacquainted with the practice of music. He had been employed to teach the harmonium to Miss Neville-Nugent and she had profited by his lessons. If his daughter's like him--and she's not like her mother--he was darkly and dangerously handsome. So I venture rapidly to reconstruct the situation." A silence, for the moment, had fallen on Lady Agnes and her other two children, so that Mr. Nash, with his universal urbanity, practically addressed these last remarks to them as well as to his other auditors. Lady Agnes looked as if she wondered whom he was talking about, and having caught the name of a noble residence she inquired: "Castle Nugent--where in the world's that?" "It's a domain of immeasurable extent and almost inconceivable splendour, but I fear not to be found in any prosaic earthly geography!" Lady Agnes rested her eyes on the tablecloth as if she weren't sure a liberty had not been taken with her, or at least with her "order," and while Mr. Nash continued to abound in descriptive suppositions--"It must be on the banks of the Manzanares or the Guadalquivir"--Peter Sherringham, whose imagination had seemingly been kindled by the sketch of Miriam Rooth, took up the argument and reminded him that he had a short time before assigned a low place to the dramatic art and had not yet answered the question as to whether he believed in the theatre. Which gave the speaker a further chance. "I don't know that I understand your question; there are different ways of taking it. Do I think it's important? Is that what you mean? Important certainly to managers and stage-carpenters who want to make money, to ladies and gentlemen who want to produce themselves in public by limelight, and to other ladies and gentlemen who are bored and stupid and don't know what to do with their evening. It's a commercial and social convenience which may be infinitely worked. But important artistically, intellectually? How _can_ it be--so poor, so limited a form?" "Upon my honour it strikes me as rich and various! Do _you_ think it's a poor and limited form, Nick?" Sherringham added, appealing to his kinsman. "I think whatever Nash thinks. I've no opinion to-day but his." This answer of the hope of the Dormers drew the eyes of his mother and sisters to him and caused his friend to exclaim that he wasn't used to such responsibilities--so few people had ever tested his presence of mind by agreeing with him. "Oh I used to be of your way of feeling," Nash went on to Sherringham. "I understand you perfectly. It's a phase like another. I've been through it--_j'ai t comme a._" "And you went then very often to the Th tre Fran ais, and it was there I saw you. I place you now." "I'm afraid I noticed none of the other spectators," Nash explained. "I had no attention but for the great Carr --she was still on the stage. Judge of my infatuation, and how I can allow for yours, when I tell you that I sought her acquaintance, that I couldn't rest till I had told her how I hung upon her lips." "That's just what _I_ told her," Sherringham returned. "She was very kind to me. She said: '_Vous me rendez des forces_.'" "That's just what she said to me!" "And we've remained very good friends." "So have we!" laughed Sherringham. "And such perfect art as hers--do you mean to say you don't consider _that_ important, such a rare dramatic intelligence?" "I'm afraid you read the _feuilletons_. You catch their phrases"--Nash spoke with pity. "Dramatic intelligence is never rare; nothing's more common." "Then why have we so many shocking actors?" "Have we? I thought they were mostly good; succeeding more easily and more completely in that business than in anything else. What could they do--those people generally--if they didn't do that poor thing? And reflect that the poor thing enables them to succeed! Of course, always, there are numbers of people on the stage who are no actors at all, for it's even easier to our poor humanity to be ineffectively stupid and vulgar than to bring down the house." "It's not easy, by what I can see, to produce, completely, any artistic effect," Sherringham declared; "and those the actor produces are among the most momentous we know. You'll not persuade me that to watch such an actress as Madame Carr wasn't an education of the taste, an enlargement of one's knowledge." "She did what she could, poor woman, but in what belittling, coarsening conditions! She had to interpret a character in a play, and a character in a play--not to say the whole piece: I speak more particularly of modern pieces--is such a wretchedly small peg to hang anything on! The dramatist shows us so little, is so hampered by his audience, is restricted to so poor an analysis." "I know the complaint. It's all the fashion now. The _raffin s_ despise the theatre," said Peter Sherringham in the manner of a man abreast with the culture of his age and not to be captured by a surprise. "_Connu, connu_!" "It will be known better yet, won't it? when the essentially brutal nature of the modern audience is still more perceived, when it has been properly analysed: the _omnium gatherum_ of the population of a big commercial city at the hour of the day when their taste is at its lowest, flocking out of hideous hotels and restaurants, gorged with food, stultified with buying and selling and with all the other sordid preoccupations of the age, squeezed together in a sweltering mass, disappointed in their seats, timing the author, timing the actor, wishing to get their money back on the spot--all before eleven o'clock. Fancy putting the exquisite before such a tribunal as that! There's not even a question of it. The dramatist wouldn't if he could, and in nine cases out of ten he couldn't if he would. He has to make the basest concessions. One of his principal canons is that he must enable his spectators to catch the suburban trains, which stop at 11.30. What would you think of any other artist--the painter or the novelist--whose governing forces should be the dinner and the suburban trains? The old dramatists didn't defer to them--not so much at least--and that's why they're less and less actable. If they're touched--the large loose men--it's only to be mutilated and trivialised. Besides, they had a simpler civilisation to represent--societies in which the life of man was in action, in passion, in immediate and violent expression. Those things could be put upon the playhouse boards with comparatively little sacrifice of their completeness and their truth. To-day we're so infinitely more reflective and complicated and diffuse that it makes all the difference. What can you do with a character, with an idea, with a feeling, between dinner and the suburban trains? You can give a gross, rough sketch of them, but how little you touch them, how bald you leave them! What crudity compared with what the novelist does!" "Do you write novels, Mr. Nash?" Peter candidly asked. "No, but I read them when they're extraordinarily good, and I don't go to plays. I read Balzac for instance--I encounter the admirable portrait of Val rie Marneffe in _La Cousine Bette_." "And you contrast it with the poverty of Emile Augier's S raphine in _Les Lionnes Pauvres_? I was awaiting you there. That's the _cheval de bataille_ of you fellows." "What an extraordinary discussion! What dreadful authors!" Lady Agnes murmured to her son. But he was listening so attentively to the other young men that he made no response, and Peter Sherringham went on: "I've seen Madame Carr in things of the modern repertory, which she has made as vivid to me, caused to abide as ineffaceably in my memory, as Val rie Marneffe. She's the Balzac, as one may say, of actresses." "The miniaturist, as it were, of whitewashers!" Nash offered as a substitute. It might have been guessed that Sherringham resented his damned freedom, yet could but emulate his easy form. "You'd be magnanimous if you thought the young lady you've introduced to our old friend would be important." Mr. Nash lightly weighed it. "She might be much more so than she ever will be." Lady Agnes, however, got up to terminate the scene and even to signify that enough had been said about people and questions she had never so much as heard of. Every one else rose, the waiter brought Nicholas the receipt of the bill, and Sherringham went on, to his interlocutor: "Perhaps she'll be more so than you think." "Perhaps--if you take an interest in her!" "A mystic voice seems to exhort me to do so, to whisper that though I've never seen her I shall find something in her." On which Peter appealed. "What do you say, Biddy--shall I take an interest in her?" The girl faltered, coloured a little, felt a certain embarrassment in being publicly treated as an oracle. "If she's not nice I don't advise it." "And if she _is_ nice?" "You advise it still less!" her brother exclaimed, laughing and putting his arm round her. Lady Agnes looked sombre--she might have been saying to herself: "Heaven help us, what chance has a girl of mine with a man who's so agog about actresses?" She was disconcerted and distressed; a multitude of incongruous things, all the morning, had been forced upon her attention--displeasing pictures and still more displeasing theories about them, vague portents of perversity on Nick's part and a strange eagerness on Peter's, learned apparently in Paris, to discuss, with a person who had a tone she never had been exposed to, topics irrelevant and uninteresting, almost disgusting, the practical effect of which was to make light of her presence. "Let us leave this--let us leave this!" she grimly said. The party moved together toward the door of departure, and her ruffled spirit was not soothed by hearing her son remark to his terrible friend: "You know you don't escape me; I stick to you!" At this Lady Agnes broke out and interposed. "Pardon my reminding you that you're going to call on Julia." "Well, can't Nash also come to call on Julia? That's just what I want--that she should see him." Peter Sherringham came humanely to his kinswoman's assistance. "A better way perhaps will be for them to meet under my auspices at my 'dramatic tea.' This will enable me to return one favour for another. If Mr. Nash is so good as to introduce me to this aspirant for honours we estimate so differently, I'll introduce him to my sister, a much more positive quantity." "It's easy to see who'll have the best of it!" Grace Dormer declared; while Nash stood there serenely, impartially, in a graceful detached way which seemed characteristic of him, assenting to any decision that relieved him of the grossness of choice and generally confident that things would turn out well for him. He was cheerfully helpless and sociably indifferent; ready to preside with a smile even at a discussion of his own admissibility. "Nick will bring you. I've a little corner at the embassy," Sherringham continued. "You're very kind. You must bring _him_ then to-morrow--Rue de Constantinople." "At five o'clock--don't be afraid." "Oh dear!" Biddy wailed as they went on again and Lady Agnes, seizing his arm, marched off more quickly with her son. When they came out into the Champs Elys es Nick Dormer, looking round, saw his friend had disappeared. Biddy had attached herself to Peter, and Grace couldn't have encouraged Mr. Nash. V Lady Agnes's idea had been that her son should go straight from the Palais de l'Industrie to the H tel de Hollande, with or without his mother and his sisters as his humour should seem to recommend. Much as she desired to see their valued Julia, and as she knew her daughters desired it, she was quite ready to put off their visit if this sacrifice should contribute to a speedy confrontation for Nick. She was anxious he should talk with Mrs. Dallow, and anxious he should be anxious himself; but it presently appeared that he was conscious of no pressure of eagerness. His view was that she and the girls should go to their cousin without delay and should, if they liked, spend the rest of the day in her society. He would go later; he would go in the evening. There were lots of things he wanted to do meanwhile. This question was discussed with some intensity, though not at length, while the little party stood on the edge of the Place de la Concorde, to which they had proceeded on foot; and Lady Agnes noticed that the "lots of things" to which he proposed to give precedence over an urgent duty, a conference with a person who held out full hands to him, were implied somehow in the friendly glance with which he covered the great square, the opposite bank of the Seine, the steep blue roofs of the quay, the bright immensity of Paris. What in the world could be more important than making sure of his seat?--so quickly did the good lady's imagination travel. And now that idea appealed to him less than a ramble in search of old books and prints--since she was sure this was what he had in his head. Julia would be flattered should she know it, but of course she mustn't know it. Lady Agnes was already thinking of the least injurious account she could give of the young man's want of precipitation. She would have liked to represent him as tremendously occupied, in his room at their own hotel, in getting off political letters to every one it should concern, and particularly in drawing up his address to the electors of Harsh. Fortunately she was a woman of innumerable discretions, and a part of the worn look that sat in her face came from her having schooled herself for years, in commerce with her husband and her sons, not to insist unduly. She would have liked to insist, nature had formed her to insist, and the self-control had told in more ways than one. Even now it was powerless to prevent her suggesting that before doing anything else Nick should at least repair to the inn and see if there weren't some telegrams. He freely consented to do as much as this, and, having called a cab that she might go her way with the girls, kissed her again as he had done at the exhibition. This was an attention that could never displease her, but somehow when he kissed her she was really the more worried: she had come to recognise it as a sign that he was slipping away from her, and she wished she might frankly take it as his clutch at her to save him. She drove off with a vague sense that at any rate she and the girls might do something toward keeping the place warm for him. She had been a little vexed that Peter had not administered more of a push toward the H tel de Hollande, clear as it had become to her now that there was a foreignness in Peter which was not to be counted on and which made him speak of English affairs and even of English domestic politics as local and even "funny." They were very grandly local, and if one recalled, in public life, an occasional droll incident wasn't that, liberally viewed, just the warm human comfort of them? As she left the two young men standing together in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, the grand composition of which Nick, as she looked back, appeared to have paused to admire--as if he hadn't seen it a thousand times!--she wished she might have thought of Peter's influence with her son as exerted a little more in favour of localism. She had a fear he wouldn't abbreviate the boy's ill-timed _fl nerie_. However, he had been very nice: he had invited them all to dine with him that evening at a convenient caf , promising to bring Julia and one of his colleagues. So much as this he had been willing to do to make sure Nick and his sister should meet. His want of localism, moreover, was not so great as that if it should turn out that there _was_ anything beneath his manner toward Biddy--! The upshot of this reflexion might have been represented by the circumstance of her ladyship's remarking after a minute to her younger daughter, who sat opposite her in the _voiture de place_, that it would do no harm if she should get a new hat and that the search might be instituted that afternoon. "A French hat, mamma?" said Grace. "Oh do wait till she gets home!" "I think they're really prettier here, you know," Biddy opined; and Lady Agnes said simply: "I daresay they're cheaper." What was in her mind in fact was: "I daresay Peter thinks them becoming." It will be seen she had plenty of inward occupation, the sum of which was not lessened by her learning when she reached the top of the Rue de la Paix that Mrs. Dallow had gone out half an hour before and had left no message. She was more disconcerted by this incident than she could have explained or than she thought was right, as she had taken for granted Julia would be in a manner waiting for them. How could she be sure Nick wasn't coming? When people were in Paris a few days they didn't mope in the house, but she might have waited a little longer or have left an explanation. Was she then not so much in earnest about Nick's standing? Didn't she recognise the importance of being there to see him about it? Lady Agnes wondered if her behaviour were a sign of her being already tired of the way this young gentleman treated her. Perhaps she had gone out because an instinct told her that the great propriety of their meeting early would make no difference with him--told her he wouldn't after all come. His mother's heart sank as she glanced at this possibility that their precious friend was already tired, she having on her side an intuition that there were still harder things in store. She had disliked having to tell Mrs. Dallow that Nick wouldn't see her till the evening, but now she disliked still more her not being there to hear it. She even resented a little her kinswoman's not having reasoned that she and the girls would come in any event, and not thought them worth staying in for. It came up indeed that she would perhaps have gone to their hotel, which was a good way up the Rue de Rivoli, near the Palais Royal--on which the cabman was directed to drive to that establishment. As he jogged along she took in some degree the measure of what that might mean, Julia's seeking a little to avoid them. Was she growing to dislike them? Did she think they kept too sharp an eye on her, so that the idea of their standing in a still closer relation wouldn't be enticing? Her conduct up to this time had not worn such an appearance, unless perhaps a little, just a very little, in the matter of her ways with poor Grace. Lady Agnes knew she wasn't particularly fond of poor Grace, and could even sufficiently guess the reason--the manner in which Grace betrayed most how they wanted to make sure of her. She remembered how long the girl had stayed the last time she had been at Harsh--going for an acceptable week and dragging out her visit to a month. She took a private heroic vow that Grace shouldn't go near the place again for a year; not, that is, unless Nick and Julia were married within the time. If that were to happen she shouldn't care. She recognised that it wasn't absolutely everything Julia should be in love with Nick; it was also better she should dislike his mother and sisters after a probable pursuit of him than before. Lady Agnes did justice to the natural rule in virtue of which it usually comes to pass that a woman doesn't get on with her husband's female belongings, and was even willing to be sacrificed to it in her disciplined degree. But she desired not to be sacrificed for nothing: if she was to be objected to as a mother-in-law she wished to be the mother-in-law first. At the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli she had the disappointment

venture

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