,"
replies
Jack
,
sturdily
.
"
If
you
were
to
go
off
in
a
fit
,
or
the
bay
colt
was
to
break
his
leg
,
or
anything
to
go
wrong
,
I
'd
far
sooner
people
would
tell
me
so
without
any
humming
and
hawing
and
keeping
me
on
the
tenter
hooks
.
Breaking
news
is
like
half
cutting
your
throat
before
you
are
hanged
,
making
you
die
two
deaths
instead
of
one
.
"
"
But
suppose
I
do
seem
to
care
a
little
about
him
?
"
suggests
Esther
,
blushing
furiously
,
but
holding
up
her
head
bravely
,
and
looking
straight
at
her
brother
.
"
Suppose
the
cow
jumped
over
the
moon
,
"
replies
Jack
with
incredulity
.
"
I
do
n't
know
whether
the
cow
has
accomplished
her
feat
,
but
I
have
accomplished
mine
,
"
says
Esther
,
trying
to
make
her
face
as
brass
,
and
failing
signally
.
Jack
puts
up
his
hand
,
and
strokes
the
future
birthplace
of
his
moustache
,
to
hide
an
unavoidable
smile
.
"
I
do
n't
wish
to
be
rude
,
"
he
says
;
"
but
may
I
ask
,
since
when
?
Was
it
a
week
ago
,
or
less
,
that
you
requested
me
to
accompany
you
on
one
of
your
joint
excursions
to
that
everlasting
wood
,
and
told
me
you
thought
your
watch
wanted
cleaning
,
the
time
seemed
to
go
so
slow
?
"
"
A
week
!
"
cries
his
sister
,
indignantly
.
"
Three
weeks
,
or
a
month
,
at
least
.
"
"
Wrong
,
Essie
,
wrong
;
it
was
this
day
fortnight
,
Ryvel
Horse
Fair
,
which
was
the
reason
why
I
had
to
decline
your
invitation
.
"
"
What
does
a
week
one
way
or
another
signify
"
she
cries
,
becoming
irrational
,
as
a
worsted
woman
mostly
does
.
"
Nothing
to
a
woman
or
a
—
weathercock
.
"
This
last
insult
is
too
much
for
Miss
Craven
.
"
I
see
you
are
determined
to
turn
me
into
ridicule
;
I
see
you
do
n't
believe
me
!
"
she
cries
,
preparing
to
rush
from
the
room
like
a
tornado
.
"
My
good
Essie
,
"
says
Jack
,
jumping
up
,
taking
her
two
hands
,
and
manfully
repressing
his
inclination
to
laugh
—
"
here
I
am
;
tell
me
anything
,
and
I
'll
swear
by
the
tomb
of
my
grandmother
to
believe
it
.
"
"
Why
should
not
I
like
him
?
What
is
there
in
him
so
hateful
as
to
make
my
being
fond
of
him
incredible
?
"
asks
Essie
,
unreasonable
and
sobbing
.
"
Nothing
that
I
know
of
—
except
his
boots
,
and
you
told
me
they
were
—
"
"
So
they
are
,
"
she
says
,
smiling
through
her
tears
—
"
more
than
hateful
;
they
haunt
one
like
a
bad
dream
.
"
"
He
is
not
the
least
penitent
about
them
,
I
can
tell
you
:
only
yesterday
he
showed
them
me
with
ungodly
glee
,
told
me
he
had
got
them
at
Hugh
Hughes
's
,
at
Naullan
,
and
advised
me
to
go
and
do
likewise
.
"
"
But
—
but
—
his
boots
are
not
he
;
he
is
not
his
boots
,
I
mean
,
"
remarks
Miss
Craven
,
with
meek
suggestion
;
"
mercifully
,
they
are
separable
.
"
"
He
was
not
born
in
them
,
you
mean
?
I
did
not
suppose
he
was
;
he
would
have
been
worse
than
Richard
the
Third
,
who
made
his
appearance
with
all
his
teeth
in
his
head
—
did
n't
he
?
—
if
he
had
.
"
"
It
is
quite
true
—
perfectly
true
,
"
continues
Esther
,
leaning
her
two
hands
on
the
back
of
a
chair
,
and
tilting
it
up
and
down
,
"
what
you
say
about
his
being
so
stupid
;
he
is
extremely
stupid
:
often
I
feel
inclined
to
box
his
ears
,
for
the
thing
he
says
,
and
for
not
understanding
things
,
and
having
to
have
them
explained
to
him
;
but
after
all
,
do
you
know
,
I
am
not
sure
that
it
is
the
people
who
say
clever
things
,
and
snap
one
up
all
in
a
minute
,
that
are
the
best
to
live
with
.
"
"
You
contemplate
living
with
him
then
,
eh
?
Last
time
I
was
favoured
with
your
plans
,
you
were
to
be
a
vestal
to
the
end
of
the
chapter
.
"
"
A
provision
for
old
age
:
I
cannot
expect
you
to
be
satisfied
with
me
always
,
"
she
answers
,
with
rather
a
sad
smile
.
"
And
when
I
am
superseded
,
a
good
worthy
simpleton
,
with
obsolete
chivalrous
ideas
of
Woman
in
the
abstract
—
Woman
with
a
big
W
—
who
will
laugh
at
my
worst
jokes
whether
he
sees
them
or
not
,
and
make
none
himself
,
is
better
than
nothing
.
"
"
All
right
,
"
says
Jack
,
calmly
,
walking
towards
the
door
,
and
unfolding
the
Times
with
a
crackling
that
nearly
drowns
his
voice
:
"
please
yourself
and
you
'll
please
me
:
only
be
so
good
as
to
tell
me
when
the
wedding
day
is
fixed
,
as
I
must
get
a
new
coat
.
I
suppose
that
the
one
I
had
for
Uncle
John
's
funeral
will
not
do
,
will
it
?
"
Who
is
it
says
in
the
"
Tempest
,
"
if
neither
Ferdinand
nor
any
other
beautiful
young
Prince
had
come
on
the
scene
,
yet
if
Miranda
had
remained
alone
with
her
father
,
and
the
storms
and
winds
and
water-spirits
,
she
would
have
ended
by
loving
Caliban
?
I
do
not
know
about
Miranda
,
but
I
am
sure
that
if
Esther
had
been
in
Miranda
's
place
she
would
have
so
ended
;
would
have
carried
faggots
in
her
slender
arms
for
the
shaggy
monster
—
have
called
him
caressing
diminutives
,
and
asked
him
little
interested
questions
about
his
dam
Sycorax
.
The
desire
to
be
loved
is
strong
enough
in
us
all
;
in
this
girl
it
amounted
to
madness
:
it
is
the
key
to
all
the
foolish
,
wicked
,
senseless
things
you
will
find
her
doing
through
this
history
's
short
course
.
If
she
could
have
had
her
will
,
every
man
,
Woman
,
and
child
,
every
cow
and
calf
and
dog
and
cat
that
met
her
,
would
have
watched
her
coming
with
joy
and
her
going
with
grief
.
Add
to
which
,
in
the
summer
time
most
women
like
to
have
a
lover
;
it
is
almost
as
necessary
to
them
as
warm
clothes
at
Christmas
.
In
winter
the
fire
is
lover
enough
for
any
one
.
The
frosty
splendour
of
the
stars
and
the
chill
flashing
of
the
northern
lights
provoke
no
yearning
in
any
one
human
soul
towards
any
other
;
we
peep
at
them
through
our
icy
casements
,
then
drop
the
curtain
shivering
,
and
leave
them
alone
to
their
high
cold
play
in
the
sky
.
But
who
can
look
at
a
July
moon
alone
?
You
will
say
that
Esther
was
not
alone
,
that
she
had
her
brother
to
look
at
it
with
her
;
but
who
will
deny
that
a
brother
who
makes
agricultural
remarks
about
the
Queen
of
Night
,
and
observes
that
the
haze
round
her
royal
head
looks
well
for
the
turnips
,
is
worse
,
immeasurably
worse
than
nobody
?
To
me
it
seems
that
there
is
nothing
absolute
,
positive
in
all
this
shifting
,
kaleidoscope
world
;
everything
is
comparative
.
There
is
nothing
either
good
,
bad
,
pretty
,
ugly
,
large
,
small
,
except
as
compared
with
something
better
,
worse
,
prettier
,
uglier
,
larger
,
smaller
.
Measure
two
men
together
,
and
you
find
one
tall
and
the
other
short
;
put
the
short
one
by
himself
or
among
a
world
of
pigmies
,
and
straightway
he
grows
tall
.
Lacking
a
standard
to
go
by
,
we
make
egregious
errors
.
I
have
known
many
a
woman
to
pass
through
life
with
a
pigmy
beside
her
,
taking
him
for
a
giant
all
the
while
,
nor
undeceived
to
the
end
.
Esther
has
no
man
to
measure
her
Robert
by
;
none
at
all
,
save
the
cowman
,
the
carter
,
and
the
groom
.
Intellectually
,
morally
,
physically
,
he
outtops
them
in
stature
,
and
that
is
all
she
can
as
yet
know
about
him
.
Moonlight
,
propinquity
,
total
absence
of
objects
of
comparison
—
these
three
must
be
Esther
's
excuses
.
Robert
is
not
much
like
her
ideal
,
certainly
—
the
ideal
whose
picture
she
has
been
painting
life-size
on
the
canvas
of
her
mind
during
the
vacant
moments
of
the
last
two
transitional
years
;
but
if
we
all
waited
to
be
wed
till
our
ideal
came
knocking
at
our
doors
,
the
world
would
be
shortly
dispeopled
of
legitimate
inhabitants
.
Miss
Craven
's
ideal
is
dark
;
at
seventeen
,
most
ideals
are
dark
:
he
has
long
,
fierce
,
sleepy
,
unfathomable
eyes
.
Robert
is
straw-
coloured
:
his
eyes
are
blue
;
very
wide
awake
:
they
say
exactly
what
his
tongue
does
,
neither
more
nor
less
,
and
there
is
absolutely
no
harm
in
them
—
a
doubtful
recommendation
to
a
woman
.
The
ideal
's
nose
is
fine
cut
,
delicately
chiselled
;
his
cheeks
are
a
little
haggard
,
slightly
hollowed
and
paled
by
five
and
thirty
years
or
so
of
the
reckless
life
of
one
that
has
lived
,
not
existed
.
Robert
's
nose
is
broad
and
blunt
;
his
cheeks
have
the
roundness
and
bloom
of
a
countryman
's
five
and
twenty
.
The
ideal
breaks
most
of
the
commandments
with
easy
grace
;
is
inclined
to
be
sceptical
and
a
little
sarcastic
over
the
old
world
beliefs
,
and
facts
hoary
with
time
and
reverence
.
Robert
nightly
prays
on
bent
knees
to
be
"
not
led
into
temptation
but
delivered
from
evil
;
"
he
believes
firmly
every
thing
that
he
ever
was
taught
,
from
the
Peep
of
Day
upwards
,
and
he
could
no
more
shape
his
honest
lips
into
a
sneer
than
he
could
square
the
circle
.
Before
the
fell
shafts
of
the
ideal
's
eyes
women
lie
slain
as
thick
as
Greeks
lay
beneath
the
arrows
of
Apollo
in
the
Iliad
's
opening
clash
;
the
number
of
Robert
's
female
victims
is
represented
by
a
duck
's
egg
.
"
Je
ne
comprends
pas
l'amour
sans
effroi
,
"
says
one
of
the
characters
in
the
best
French
novel
I
have
read
this
many
a
day
.
The
ideal
inspires
fear
equally
with
love
;
you
can
imagine
his
being
harsh
,
fierce
,
cruel
,
to
the
woman
he
loves
.
In
none
of
the
most
hard-hearted
of
created
beings
could
Robert
provoke
alarm
.
Children
who
see
him
for
the
first
time
come
and
thrust
their
little
dimpled
hands
into
his
,
and
laugh
up
with
confident
impudence
in
his
face
.
Dogs
to
whom
he
has
never
been
introduced
come
and
rub
their
shaggy
heads
against
his
knees
,
and
curl
and
wriggle
about
his
friendly
feet
.
Esther
can
indulge
no
faintest
hope
that
he
will
bully
her
.
The
ideal
rides
straight
as
a
die
,
and
is
as
much
a
part
of
his
horse
as
a
centaur
.
Robert
is
very
fond
of
getting
a
day
's
hunting
when
he
can
afford
the
two
guineas
requisite
for
the
hiring
of
a
horse
,
which
is
not
very
often
;
and
he
likes
to
get
his
money
's
worth
by
blundering
blindly
over
everything
that
comes
in
his
way
,
but
he
has
about
as
much
idea
of
riding
as
a
tailor
or
a
cow
.
The
ideal
is
an
idol
to
be
set
up
and
worshipped
—
a
Baal
to
be
adored
with
tears
and
blood
and
knife-gashings
.
Robert
is
a
worshipper
to
be
encouraged
by
a
cold
look
and
smile
flung
to
him
every
now
and
then
,
like
a
bone
to
a
dog
,
or
spurned
away
with
disapproving
foot
,
as
Cain
was
from
his
unaccepted
altar
.
To
worship
is
to
a
woman
always
sweeter
than
to
be
worshipped
.
To
worship
one
must
look
up
;
to
be
worshipped
one
must
look
down
.
.
.
.
Come
with
me
this
August
Sunday
through
the
wood
from
Glan-yr-Afon
to
Plas
Berwyn
—
from
Esther
's
home
to
Robert
's
.
It
is
but
a
few
hundred
yards
of
shade
and
shine
,
a
small
,
scarce
trodden
wood-path
whose
narrow
,
faint
track
the
ripe
grasses
and
the
seeded
ferns
have
well-nigh
obliterated
,
flinging
themselves
across
it
in
all
the
abandon
of
their
unspeakable
grace
.
The
apples
'
round
faces
are
reddening
in
the
little
Plas
Berwyn
orchard
;
the
shorn
fields
slope
barely
,
slantwise
along
the
hill-side
in
their
yellow
stubble
.
For
weeks
and
weeks
the
corn
has
been
whitening
under
the
sun
's
hard
,
veilless
stare
,
and
now
at
last
it
has
fallen
;
the
barley
has
bowed
its
bearded
head
beneath
the
sickle
's
stroke
,
and
the
oats
their
tremulous
ringlets
.
They
are
all
gathered
in
,
and
garnered
in
Mrs.
Brandon
's
stout
,
well-thatched
stacks
;
to
thatch
a
stack
is
the
one
thing
a
Welshman
can
do
.
It
is
an
hour
past
noon
,
and
the
Reverend
Evan
Evans
has
released
the
bodies
of
his
congregation
from
that
white-washed
,
tumble-down
old
barn
that
he
is
pleased
to
call
his
church
,
and
their
minds
from
the
tension
necessary
to
take
in
the
ill-strung-together
,
misapplied
texts
that
he
is
pleased
to
call
his
sermon
.
Plas
Berwyn
is
a
house
of
about
the
same
size
as
Glan-yr-Afon
,
but
the
rooms
do
not
look
so
large
,
they
are
so
full
of
large
things
and
large
people
.
The
dining-toom
is
crowded
up
with
a
great
mahogany
table
,
a
great
mahogany
sideboard
,
great
mahogany
chairs
—
inconvenient
relics
,
fondly
clung
to
by
people
who
from
a
larger
house
have
subsided
into
a
smaller
one
—
a
sort
of
warranty
of
past
respectability
like
the
cottager
's
japanned
tea-tray
and
brass
candlesticks
.
There
is
an
atmosphere
of
lumbersome
age
and
gravity
about
the
whole
place
;
none
of
the
fragrance
and
light
and
melody
that
youth
,
sheer
youth
,
even
divorced
from
any
other
attractive
qualities
,
brings
with
it
.
Of
all
the
gods
of
the
Greek
mythology
I
will
bring
my
votive
crowns
and
my
salt
cakes
to
Bacchus
.
Not
the
bloated
old
gentleman
striding
drunk
over
a
barrel
,
as
we
figure
him
,
but
Bacchus
eternally
young
.
What
is
there
so
worthy
of
adoration
in
this
aging
,
wrinkling
world
as
never
ending
youth
?
Most
people
are
cross
and
most
people
are
unusually
hungry
on
Sunday
.
I
do
not
know
why
it
is
,
but
if
you
observe
your
acquaintance
you
will
find
it
to
be
true
.
Hungry
or
not
,
the
Brandons
are
at
dinner
,
dining
frugally
and
sparely
on
cold
roast
beef
and
cold
apple
tart
.
Nothing
hot
ever
figures
on
the
Brandons
'
Sabbath
table
,
not
even
potatoes
;
indeed
,
unless
they
boiled
themselves
,
and
hopped
out
of
the
pot
judiciously
when
they
found
themselves
done
,
I
do
not
see
how
they
could
,
as
on
the
Sabbath
morn
every
living
soul
at
Plas
Berwyn
,
every
reluctant
scullion
and
recalcitrant
housemaid
,
is
trundled
off
to
church
,
the
house-door
locked
,
and
the
key
deposited
in
Mrs.
Brandon
's
pocket
.
All
the
Brandons
hate
dining
in
the
middle
of
the
day
,
consequently
they
always
dine
in
the
middle
of
the
day
on
Sunday
.
Everybody
knows
that
there
are
few
things
more
distinctly
unpleasant
than
to
sit
in
the
same
room
in
which
you
have
your
meals
;
to
live
with
the
unending
smell
and
steam
of
departed
viands
up
your
nose
and
eyes
and
ears
:
consequently
the
Brandons
always
sit
in
the
dining-room
on
Sunday
.
Sunday
is
to
them
a
sort
of
aggravated
Ash
Wednesday
and
Good
Friday
rolled
into
one
.
On
Saturday
night
Miss
Bessy
Brandon
swoops
down
upon
all
novels
,
travels
,
biographies
,
magazines
,
poetry
books
,
that
may
be
lying
about
,
makes
a
clean
sweep
of
them
and
consigns
them
to
disgrace
and
a
cupboard
till
the
return
of
Monday
releases
them
.
The
Brandon
family
at
the
present
moment
have
got
their
Sunday
faces
and
their
Sunday
clothes
on
,
and
they
misbecome
most
of
them
very
sorely
.
Very
few
men
look
their
best
in
their
Go-to-Meeting
clothes
.
For
some
unexplained
reason
,
a
black
coat
made
by
a
country
tailor
shows
its
shortcomings
more
plainly
than
a
coloured
one
.
The
garment
that
cases
Bob
's
broad
shoulders
would
draw
tears
from
Mr.
Poole
's
eyes
,
could
he
see
it
.
As
for
Mrs.
Brandon
,
she
always
has
more
or
less
of
a
Sunday
face
on
—
which
I
do
not
say
in
any
dispraise
,
but
merely
to
express
a
sober
,
steadfast
face
,
unfurrowed
by
any
violent
gust
of
mirth
or
blast
of
anger
.
She
is
like
Enid
and
her
mother
,
"
clad
all
in
faded
silk
,
"
and
on
her
breast
she
has
a
miniature
of
the
departed
Brandon
,
in
Geneva
gown
and
bands
,
about
as
big
as
a
teacup
,
and
with
two
small
glutinous
curls
of
the
departed
's
hair
at
the
back
.
It
is
so
long
ago
since
he
died
,
that
she
must
have
forgotten
all
about
him
—
what
he
was
like
,
even
;
but
site
still
wears
his
effigy
,
as
an
old
inn
continues
to
hang
out
the
sign
of
the
Saracen
's
Head
,
though
it
is
centuries
since
ever
a
Saracen
has
been
seen
on
the
earth
's
face
.
Opposite
each
other
,
like
little
bad
mirrors
of
one
another
,
sit
the
Misses
Brandon
,
in
melancholy
little
gowns
of
no
particular
stuff
and
no
particular
colour
,
and
little
wisps
of
thin
,
fine
hair
well
down
over
their
ears
,
and
minute
chig
.
nons
on
the
napes
of
their
necks
—
their
little
,
bustless
,
waistless
,
hipless
figures
,
long
plaintive
noses
,
and
meek
,
dull
eyes
proclaiming
them
of
that
virgin
band
to
whom
St.
Paul
has
awarded
the
palm
of
excellence
.
The
Sunday
literature
is
scattered
about
on
the
hard-bottomed
chairs
.
"
Stop
the
Leak
"
lies
on
the
pit
of
its
stomach
,
open
at
the
spot
where
Miss
Bessy
abandoned
it
in
favour
of
the
cold
beef
;
the
"
Saturday
Night
of
the
World
,
"
with
its
mouth
open
,
and
a
paper-knife
in
it
.
"
Cut
two
or
three
good
large
slices
,
Bob
,
dear
;
they
will
be
so
nice
for
old
John
Owen
,
"
Mrs.
Brandon
is
saying
,
in
her
benignant
,
cracked
,
old
voice
.
"
We
can
leave
them
as
we
go
by
to
church
;
Bob
can
carry
them
,
"
says
Miss
Brandon
,
with
authority
.
Robert
is
silent
.
"
Bob
does
not
like
the
idea
of
being
seen
carrying
a
basket
;
he
thinks
it
would
spoil
his
appearance
.
"
"
Hang
the
appearance
!
"
says
Bob
,
with
an
easy
laugh
.
"
If
a
man
is
a
gentleman
,
it
does
not
make
him
any
the
less
a
gentleman
even
if
he
were
seen
wheeling
a
perambulator
down
Regent
Street
;
but
,
to
tell
the
truth
,
I
do
n't
think
I
shall
go
to
church
this
afternoon
.
"
"
Not
go
to
church
!
Not
go
to
church
!
!
Not
go
to
church
!
!
!
"
in
three
different
keys
,
rising
from
astonishment
to
horrified
incredulity
.
But
seldom
has
Mr.
Brandon
missed
attending
divine
service
from
the
auspicious
day
,
two
and
twenty
years
ago
,
when
,
at
the
tender
age
of
three
years
,
being
,
Eutychus-
like
,
overcome
with
sleep
,
he
fell
down
with
much
clamour
from
a
high
bench
,
and
raised
a
mountainous
red
lump
on
his
baby
forehead
,
coming
into
contact
with
the
hard
pew
floor
:
"
And
his
head
,
as
he
tumbled
,
went
knicketty-knock
,
Like
a
pebble
in
Carisbrook
well
.
"
Robert
feels
the
weight
of
public
opinion
to
be
heavy
,
but
he
sticks
like
a
man
to
what
he
said
.
"
Not
to-day
,
mother
,
I
think
.
Esther
said
she
would
be
coming
in
by-and-by
to
say
good-bye
to
you
all
,
and
,
as
it
is
her
last
day
,
I
thought
I
might
as
well
have
as
much
as
I
could
of
her
.
"
"
What
do
you
mean
,
Bob
?
Is
the
girl
going
to
die
to-night
?
"
inquires
Miss
Brandon
,
perking
up
her
little
tow-coloured
head
sharply
.
"
God
forbid
!
"
he
cries
,
with
a
hasty
shudder
;
"
do
n't
suggest
anything
so
frightful
;
but
she
is
off
to-morrow
for
a
week
or
ten
days
on
a
visit
to
some
friends
.
"
"
Going
away
without
mentioning
a
word
about
it
!
"
"
Going
away
now
!
"
These
two
sentences
shoot
out
with
simultaneous
velocity
from
two
mouths
.
"
Are
you
surprised
at
her
not
telling
us
where
she
is
going
?
Does
she
ever
tell
us
anything
?
Does
she
make
us
her
confidants
!
"
subjoins
Miss
Bessy
,
with
mild
spite
.
Spite
is
permissible
on
the
Sabbath
,
though
hot
potatoes
and
novels
are
not
.
"
She
did
not
know
herself
till
yesterday
,
"
says
Bob
,
briefly
,
cutting
away
rather
viciously
at
the
beef
.
"
But
who
are
these
sudden
friends
that
have
sprung
up
all
at
once
?
What
are
their
names
?
Where
do
they
live
?
Tell
us
all
about
them
,
dear
boy
,
"
says
the
old
woman
,
gently
,
seeing
that
her
son
is
chafed
.
"
Their
names
are
Sir
Thomas
and
Lady
Gerard
;
they
are
old
friends
of
the
Cravens
'
father
,
and
they
live
in
—
shire
;
that
is
all
I
know
about
them
.
"
"
A
steady-going
old
couple
,
I
suppose
?
Will
not
that
be
rather
dull
for
a
little
gay
thing
like
Esther
?
"
"
There
is
a
girl
of
about
her
own
age
,
I
believe
,
a
ward
of
Sir
Thomas
's
.
"
"
A
ward
!
—
oh
!
"
"
And
also
a
son
.
"
"
A
son
!
o
—
h
!
"
"
Well
,
why
should
not
there
be
a
son
?
What
harm
is
there
in
that
?
"
asks
Robert
,
raising
his
voice
a
little
in
irritation
.
"
No
harm
whatever
!
Much
better
thing
than
a
daughter
!
Can
push
his
own
way
in
the
world
.
Not
that
I
know
in
the
least
what
you
are
talking
about
,
"
cries
a
young
,
saucy
voice
,
which
,
with
the
little
sleek
,
dark
head
it
belongs
to
,
appears
uninvited
at
the
door
at
this
juncture
.
"
Oh
!
I
see
you
are
all
at
dinner
,
so
I
'll
stay
outside
till
you
have
finished
;
it
is
so
horrible
to
be
watched
when
one
is
eating
,
is
n't
it
?
I
hate
it
myself
.
"
And
the
head
and
the
voice
disappear
again
as
quickly
as
they
came
.
A
ruddier
tinge
rushes
into
Robert
's
already
ruddy
cheek
—
ruddy
as
King
David
's
when
he
tended
his
few
sheep
in
the
Syrian
pastures
,
before
the
weight
of
the
heavy
Israelitish
crown
,
and
of
his
own
wars
and
murders
had
blanched
it
.
Down
go
the
carving
knife
and
fork
with
a
clatter
,
and
,
"
like
a
doting
mallard
,
"
he
flies
after
the
little
vision
,
banging
the
door
behind
him
with
an
impetus
that
makes
his
sisters
bound
up
from
their
horsehair
chairs
like
two
small
parched
peas
.
Presently
he
brings
her
back
in
triumph
.
"
So
you
are
going
to
run
away
from
us
,
my
love
?
"
says
Mrs.
Brandon
,
holding
Esther
's
young
white
hand
in
her
old
veiny
one
.
"
Yes
,
I
'm
afraid
so
;
it
is
a
great
bore
,
is
n't
it
?
"
answers
Esther
,
trying
her
best
to
lengthen
her
round
face
and
look
miserable
.
"
If
it
is
a
bore
,
why
do
you
go
?
"
inquires
Miss
Bessy
,
drily
.
"
Because
I
think
I
ought
to
make
some
friends
for
myself
;
I
never
met
anybody
before
that
had
no
friends
,
as
Jack
and
I
have
not
;
we
literally
have
not
one
—
except
all
of
you
,
of
course
,
"
she
ends
with
a
happy
after-thought
.
"
When
you
come
to
my
age
,
my
dear
,
"
says
Mrs.
Brandon
,
shaking
her
head
,
and
all
the
innumerous
stiff
frillings
of
her
cap
,
and
bringing
to
bear
on
Esther
's
sanguine
youth
the
weight
of
her
own
gloomy
experiences
,
in
the
infuriating
way
that
old
people
do
,
"
you
will
have
found
out
that
a
few
good
friends
are
worth
more
than
a
great
many
indifferent
ones
.
"
"
But
why
should
not
these
people
be
good
friends
?
"
asks
the
girl
,
a
little
incredulously
.
"
Who
knows
?
Surely
there
must
be
more
good
people
in
the
world
than
bad
ones
;
so
the
chances
are
in
favour
of
them
.
"
"
We
are
expressly
forbidden
to
judge
,
"
begins
Miss
Bessy
,
charitably
;
"
otherwise
—
There
's
the
first
bell
beginning
;
we
had
better
go
and
put
on
our
things
,
Jane
.
"
CHAPTER
VII
.
FIVE
minutes
more
,
and
three
large
brown
parasols
,
a
large
black
poke
bonnet
and
two
little
dirt-coloured
ones
,
are
seen
slowly
pacing
down
the
hill
to
the
House
of
Prayer
.
The
lovers
have
Plas
Berwyn
to
themselves
.
Bob
has
gained
his
point
,
despite
a
parting
fleer
from
Bessy
as
to
the
undesirability
of
neglecting
the
Creator
for
the
creature
.
"
Tim
Dowler
!
Tim
Dowler
!
Tim
Dowler
!
"
cries
Esther
,
joyously
,
jumping
about
the
room
like
a
child
,
and
mimicking
the
one
church
bell
which
is
heard
clearly
tinkling
through
the
valley
.
"
Listen
,
Bob
!
Does
it
not
say
'
Tim
Dowler
'
just
exactly
as
if
it
were
speaking
it
?
Oh
!
look
here
:
I
'll
lose
all
their
places
for
them
in
their
good
books
,
and
I
bet
anything
they
'll
never
find
them
again
.
"
So
saying
,
she
proceeds
to
remove
the
paper-knife
from
the
"
Saturday
Night
of
the
World
,
"
and
carefully
closes
"
Stop
the
Leak
.
"
"
What
spirits
you
are
in
to-day
,
Essie
!
"
says
Bob
,
balancing
himself
on
the
window-sill
,
with
his
long
legs
dangling
lugubriously
,
and
following
her
about
the
room
with
his
eyes
,
as
a
child
does
a
butterfly
.
"
I
believe
it
is
because
you
are
going
to
be
rid
of
me
for
a
fortnight
.
"
"
Partly
,
I
think
,
"
replies
Esther
,
nonchalantly
.
"
It
seems
as
if
all
my
life
I
had
seen
and
heard
of
nothing
but
Glan-yr-Afon
and
Plas
Berwyn
,
Plas
Berwyn
and
Glan-yr-
Afon
,
and
now
I
'm
going
to
see
and
hear
something
fresh
;
it
may
be
better
and
it
may
be
worse
;
but
,
at
all
events
,
it
will
be
something
different
.
Perhaps
I
shall
come
back
as
the
country
mouse
did
,
more
in
love
than
ever
with
my
own
cheeseparings
and
tallow-candle
ends
;
perhaps
"
—
swinging
her
Sunday
bonnet
by
the
strings
and
looking
up
maliciously
—
"
perhaps
I
shall
see
some
one
I
like
better
than
you
,
and
not
come
back
at
all
.
"
"
Hush
!
"
he
cries
,
hurriedly
,
putting
up
his
hand
before
her
mouth
.
"
Do
n't
say
that
;
it
is
bad
luck
.
I
should
not
mind
your
saying
it
if
it
were
not
so
horribly
probable
.
"
Esther
subsides
into
gravity
.
"
I
wish
to
Heaven
you
were
not
so
fond
of
me
!
"
she
says
,
hastily
;
"
please
do
try
not
to
be
:
it
makes
me
feel
as
if
I
were
cheating
all
the
time
—
having
things
and
not
paying
for
them
.
"
"
I
could
have
given
you
up
at
first
,
if
you
had
told
me
it
must
be
so
positively
;
I
'm
sure
I
could
have
made
shift
to
do
without
you
,
as
I
have
made
shift
to
do
without
many
a
thing
that
other
fellows
consider
necessaries
of
life
;
but
now
—
"
He
has
seized
her
two
hands
,
and
now
holds
her
standing
there
before
him
.
To
hold
her
hand
is
the
one
familiarity
Robert
is
permitted
;
not
once
in
all
his
life
has
he
kissed
his
betrothed
.
"
It
was
a
foolish
,
silly
custom
,
"
she
said
one
day
,
pettishly
—
"
no
sensibler
than
rubbing
noses
together
,
as
the
Feejee
islanders
did
;
for
her
part
,
she
hated
it
,
etc.
"
"
But
now
,
what
?
finish
your
sentence
,
please
,
"
says
the
little
captive
,
gaily
.
"
Esther
,
I
wish
these
people
had
not
got
a
son
.
"
"
What
people
?
"
"
These
Gerards
.
"
"
Why
so
?
Do
you
think
that
they
would
have
left
you
their
money
if
they
had
not
?
"
"
No
,
not
that
,
"
smiling
against
his
will
.
"
But
,
Essie
,
you
'll
promise
to
write
and
tell
me
what
he
is
like
?
"
"
Yes
.
"
"
What
sort
of
age
?
"
"
Yes
.
"
"
Whether
you
see
much
of
him
?
"
"
Yes
.
"
"
What
he
says
to
you
?
"
"
Come
,
I
cannot
promise
that
,
"
says
Esther
,
bursting
out
laughing
.
"
Oh
you
dear
old
goose
!
are
you
jealous
of
a
name
,
a
shade
,
an
imagination
?
"
"
I
am
jealous
,
"
he
answers
,
reddening
.
"
I
can
no
more
help
it
than
a
man
in
the
gout
can
help
having
twinges
.
I
shall
always
be
jealous
until
you
are
really
mine
past
stealing
or
taking
back
again
:
after
that
I
never
shall
.
"
"
I
should
hope
not
,
"
retorts
she
,
with
levity
:
"
if
you
were
,
I
should
think
it
my
duty
to
try
and
give
you
some
cause
.
"
The
church
bell
has
ceased
;
there
is
no
sound
in
the
quiet
room
but
that
of
one
fat-bodied
bluebottle
,
labouring
and
buzzing
up
the
pane
,
and
then
tumbling
back
again
.
Robert
has
abandoned
the
window-sill
,
finding
it
a
painful
and
not
luxurious
seat
:
he
is
walking
up
and
down
,
up
and
down
;
one
stride
and
a
half
of
his
long
legs
taking
him
from
end
to
end
of
the
little
room
.
Esther
has
thrown
herself
into
an
American
rocking
chair
,
and
is
rocking
violently
backwards
and
forwards
,
trying
her
best
to
tip
herself
over
.
"
Promise
me
,
Essie
,
"
says
the
young
man
,
coming
to
a
sudden
standstill
beside
her
—
"
promise
me
that
you
'll
talk
seriously
of
—
you
know
what
—
when
you
come
home
;
I
give
you
till
then
?
Good
heavens
!
what
sort
of
stuff
could
Jacob
have
been
made
of
to
have
held
out
all
those
fourteen
years
!
"
"
'
The
little
maid
replied
,
Some
say
a
little
sighed
,
And
what
shall
we
have
for
to
eat
,
eat
,
eat
?
Will
the
love
that
you
're
so
rich
in
Make
a
fire
in
the
kitchen
,
Or
the
little
god
of
love
turn
the
spit
,
spit
,
spit
?
'
"
answers
Esther
,
evading
her
lover
's
urgency
by
a
quotation
.
"
If
I
could
get
an
Adjutancy
of
Volunteers
,
"
pursues
he
,
resuming
his
walk
,
with
his
eyes
bent
on
the
ground
,
and
frowning
away
in
the
intensity
of
his
thinking
,
"
or
,
better
still
,
a
Militia
one
,
or
a
Chief
Constableship
,
or
the
Governorship
of
a
gaol
:
there
are
always
some
of
those
sort
of
things
going
about
.
Why
should
I
not
come
in
for
one
as
well
as
another
fellow
?
We
want
so
little
—
"
"
Want
so
little
?
"
interrupts
Esther
,
briskly
.
"
Speak
for
yourself
,
please
:
I
want
a
great
deal
;
only
,
as
far
as
I
can
see
,
want
is
likely
to
be
my
master
.
"
"
You
are
no
fine
lady
,
"
pursues
he
,
talking
more
to
himself
than
to
her
,
"
that
requires
to
be
waited
on
;
you
can
make
your
own
bonnets
and
gowns
,
cannot
you
?
My
sisters
always
do
.
"
"
So
I
should
imagine
,
"
says
Esther
,
drily
.
"
What
do
you
mean
?
Are
not
they
all
right
?
is
there
anything
the
matter
with
them
?
"
inquires
he
,
stopping
short
and
looking
surprised
,
as
if
the
idea
of
there
being
any
deficiency
in
his
sisters
'
costumes
was
an
entirely
new
light
to
him
.
But
Miss
Craven
purses
up
her
pretty
mouth
in
a
silence
more
damnatory
of
the
Misses
Brandon
's
toilettes
than
any
words
could
be
.
"
If
we
had
not
a
large
enough
income
to
live
by
ourselves
,
"
says
he
,
beginning
again
his
tramp
,
tramp
,
"
we
might
join
housekeeping
with
mother
and
the
girls
;
they
would
not
object
,
I
'm
sure
.
"
"
But
I
should
,
strongly
,
"
cries
Esther
,
springing
up
,
and
getting
crimson
with
vexation
.
"
Why
,
we
should
all
be
by
the
ears
in
a
week
.
Robert
,
how
many
times
will
you
make
me
tell
you
that
I
like
you
well
enough
to
go
sailing
along
beside
you
on
the
sea
of
life
as
long
as
it
is
nice
and
smooth
,
but
I
really
do
not
love
you
enough
to
go
bumping
over
rocks
and
into
breakers
with
you
?
I
would
do
it
for
Jack
,
and
welcome
,
but
for
no
other
human
being
on
the
face
of
the
earth
.
"
"
Will
you
never
like
me
as
well
as
you
do
Jack
?
"
he
inquires
,
sadly
,
looking
at
her
with
eyes
so
loving
,
that
one
would
think
her
own
must
catch
the
infection
.
But
,
no
;
they
remain
coldly
bright
,
with
the
cold
brightness
of
friendship
.
"
Never
.
"
"
Not
after
ten
years
?
"
"
No.
"
"
Nor
twenty
?
"
"
No.
"
"
Nor
thirty
?
"
"
No
,
nor
a
thousand
.
Cannot
you
see
what
a
different
thing
it
is
?
If
one
loses
a
lover
one
can
get
a
hundred
more
just
as
good
as
,
if
not
better
than
,
the
one
lost
;
but
if
I
were
to
lose
Jack
—
oh
,
God
!
how
can
I
suggest
anything
so
awful
—
who
could
give
me
another
brother
?
"
"
So
be
it
,
then
,
since
it
must
be
that
I
am
to
play
second
fiddle
all
my
life
(
sighing
)
;
but
,
Essie
,
you
'll
promise
to
write
to
me
every
day
,
wo
n't
you
?
"
"
Certainly
not
.
"
"
Every
second
day
,
then
?
"
"
Certainly
not
.
"
"
Twice
a
week
,
then
?
"
"
Per
—
haps
;
if
I
have
anything
to
say
.
"
"
And
you
'll
be
sure
not
to
stay
beyond
the
fortnight
?
"
"
That
depends
.
If
they
are
fine
,
and
inclined
to
'
country
cousin
'
me
,
I
shall
probably
be
back
the
day
after
to-morrow
:
if
they
make
a
great
fuss
with
me
,
and
if
Mr.
Gerard
is
young
and
handsome
and
civil-spoken
,
I
dare
say
you
will
not
see
me
again
under
two
months
.
"
He
looks
so
sincerely
pained
that
her
conscience
smites
her
.
"
There
,
"
she
says
,
"
I
have
teased
you
enough
for
one
day
;
let
us
kiss
and
make
friends
,
—
that
is
,
figuratively
.
Come
,
"
putting
out
her
hand
to
draw
him
along
with
her
,
"
let
us
go
to
the
kitchen
garden
and
see
if
the
wasps
have
left
us
any
apricots
.
If
Bessy
were
here
,
she
would
tell
us
some
pleasing
anecdote
of
how
some
people
went
and
picked
apricots
on
the
Sabbath
,
and
got
stung
in
the
throat
and
swelled
,
and
died
in
great
agonies
;
but
I
'm
willing
to
run
the
risk
if
you
are
.
"
Nine
o'clock
!
The
maid-servants
are
at
evening
church
,
combining
the
double
advantage
of
making
their
souls
and
meeting
their
sweethearts
.
Esther
,
happily
rid
of
hers
,
is
sitting
on
the
ground
at
the
French
window
of
the
study
,
beside
her
brother
.
The
rooks
that
blackened
the
meadow
awhile
ago
have
flapped
heavily
home
to
the
mile-off
rookery
.
It
is
such
a
great
,
still
world
;
who
would
fancy
that
there
were
so
many
noisy
men
,
barking
dogs
,
snorting
steam-engines
in
it
?
It
seems
a
world
of
stars
and
flowers
,
as
one
would
imagine
it
after
reading
one
of
Mrs.
Heman
's
poems
.
Jack
is
smoking
;
now
and
then
Esther
takes
the
pipe
out
of
his
mouth
,
gives
a
little
puff
,
coughs
and
chokes
,
and
puts
it
back
again
.
Oh
,
blessed
state
of
intimacy
,
when
you
may
sit
by
a
person
for
hours
and
never
utter
to
them
!
Esther
is
thinking
what
a
pretty
,
pleasant
Idyllic
life
hers
is
;
like
an
Arcadian
shepherdess
's
in
this
lovely
valley
,
far
away
from
smoky
towns
and
vulgar
cares
and
sordid
toils
.
Young
and
beautiful
(
what
pretty
woman
is
mock-modest
to
her
own
thoughts
?
)
,
living
with
a
brother
who
is
to
her
what
father
,
mother
,
brothers
,
sisters
,
husband
,
children
,
are
to
other
women
;
a
brother
who
is
only
three
years
older
than
herself
,
consequently
not
likely
to
die
much
before
her
.
She
is
thinking
,
a
little
regretfully
,
that
,
fair
and
poetic
as
this
life
is
,
it
is
passing
,
and
that
as
it
passes
she
does
not
feel
its
beauty
as
acutely
as
she
ought
—
does
not
suck
out
all
its
sweetness
,
as
a
man
swallows
a
delicious
draught
hastily
,
carelessly
,
without
tasting
and
dwelling
upon
its
rare
flavour
.
It
is
the
same
sort
of
thought
(
only
much
weaker
)
as
those
that
torment
us
as
we
sit
alone
by
the
hearth
mourning
our
dead
,
and
reproach
ourselves
,
with
a
yearning
pain
,
that
while
they
were
yet
with
us
we
did
not
draw
our
chairs
half
close
enough
to
theirs
—
did
not
take
hold
of
their
hands
and
kiss
their
faces
half
often
enough
—
did
not
half
often
enough
tell
them
,
with
eager
lips
,
how
preciouser
than
life
they
were
to
us
.
"
What
will
you
be
doing
this
time
to-morrow
,
Essie
?
"
asks
Jack
,
breaking
in
upon
her
reverie
;
and
has
not
he
a
right
,
for
is
not
he
king
and
hero
of
it
?
"
Wishing
myself
back
again
,
to
a
dead
certainty
,
"
answers
Essie
,
emphatically
.
"
Jack
"
(
rubbing
her
cheek
up
and
down
softly
against
his
shoulder
—
Jack
is
but
a
young
,
slight
stripling
)
,
"
I
do
believe
that
if
I
were
in
heaven
,
and
saw
you
sitting
all
alone
here
smoking
your
pipe
,
I
should
have
to
throw
away
my
harp
and
crown
,
and
come
down
to
keep
you
company
.
"
"
If
you
were
in
heaven
,
"
returns
Jack
,
gravely
,
"
I
think
you
would
be
so
surprised
and
pleased
to
find
yourself
there
that
you
would
be
in
no
hurry
to
come
out
again
for
me
or
anybody
else
.
"
"
Perhaps
so
,
but
I
think
not
,
"
she
answers
,
sighing
,
and
thrusting
her
arm
gently
through
his
.
"
Have
you
got
any
money
,
Essie
"
"
Plenty
.
"
"
How
much
?
"
"
Plenty
.
"
"
But
how
much
?
"
"
Never
you
mind
.
"
"
But
I
do
mind
.
"
"
Enough
to
take
me
there
and
bring
me
back
again
,
and
I
do
n't
suppose
they
'll
charge
me
for
board
and
lodging
.
"
"
Servants
at
those
sort
of
swell
places
expect
such
a
lot
of
tipping
,
"
says
Jack
,
pensively
,
knocking
the
ash
out
of
his
pipe
.
"
They
may
expect
,
then
;
a
little
disappointment
is
very
wholesome
for
us
all
.
They
are
much
better
able
to
tip
me
than
I
them
.
"
"
There
are
sure
to
be
charity
sermons
,
too
,
"
continues
the
boy
,
with
a
forethought
worthy
of
riper
years
.
"
I
do
n't
know
how
it
is
,
but
I
never
went
to
a
strange
place
in
my
life
without
there
being
a
collection
for
the
Kaffirs
or
the
Jews
or
the
Additional
Curates
or
something
the
very
first
Sunday
after
I
got
there
.
"
"
I
would
pretend
I
had
forgotten
my
purse
.
"
Jack
puts
his
pipe
in
his
pocket
,
rises
,
retires
into
his
sanctum
,
lights
a
candle
,
rummages
in
a
drawer
,
and
presently
returns
with
a
five-pound
note
.
Bank
notes
grew
but
in
scanty
crops
at
Glan-yr-Afon
.
"
Here
,
Essie
.
"
"
No
!
no
!
No
!
"
cries
Essie
,
volubly
,
jumping
up
and
clasping
her
hands
behind
her
back
.
"
Yes
!
yes
!
YES
!
"
No
!
no
!
You
wo
n't
have
enough
money
to
pay
the
men
on
Saturday
night
.
"
"
Talk
about
what
you
understand
,
"
says
Jack
,
gruffly
.
"
Do
you
think
I
'm
going
to
let
my
sister
go
about
like
a
beggar
and
whine
for
halfpence
?
"
"
Oh
,
Jack
,
Jack
!
"
throwing
herself
about
his
neck
,
and
burying
her
face
in
his
sunburnt
throat
.
"
How
bitter
it
is
always
to
take
,
and
never
to
give
!
Oh
!
if
I
had
but
something
to
give
you
;
but
you
know
I
have
got
nothing
in
the
world
.
"
"
You
have
got
Bob
.
"
"
Ah
!
so
I
have
"
(
making
a
little
grimace
)
;
"
and
if
he
would
do
you
any
good
,
you
might
have
him
,
and
welcome
,
to
make
mincemeat
of
,
if
you
liked
.
"
CHAPTER
VIII
.
THE
2.25
train
from
Brainton
is
due
at
Felton
at
5.30
.
It
is
drawing
near
Mither
now
,
escorted
by
a
vanguard
,
bodyguard
,
and
rearguard
of
dust-clouds
;
it
rushes
along
,
with
the
sun
beating
down
on
the
roofs
of
the
carriages
,
making
them
like
little
compartments
of
Hades
.
If
the
devil
took
a
hint
from
the
Coldbath
Fields
cells
for
"
improving
the
prisons
of
Hell
,
"
he
certainly
might
take
a
hint
from
the
Brainton
train
for
improving
the
travelling
conveyances
of
the
same
locality
.
In
one
of
the
first-class
carriages
there
is
a
baby
:
it
has
got
a
cold
,
and
seems
rather
inclined
to
be
sick
;
so
both
the
nurse
,
on
whose
lap
it
lies
gaping
and
blowing
bubbles
,
and
the
idolising
mother
,
who
sits
over
against
it
,
insist
on
keeping
its
window
tight
up
.
There
is
a
rusty
old
divine
,
in
gilt-rimmed
spectacles
and
a
jowl
,
reading
the
Guardian
;
a
commercial
traveller
,
with
his
hat
off
,
his
legs
up
,
and
a
gaudy
cap
on
his
head
,
fast
asleep
;
and
,
lastly
,
a
little
young
lady
,
sitting
facing
the
engine
,
with
the
dusty
blast
driving
hot
and
full
in
her
face
,
blinking
,
coughing
,
choking
,
with
the
utmost
patience
.
On
her
lap
lies
a
huge
bunch
of
red
and
yellow
roses
and
heavy-scented
double-stocks
,
all
limp
and
drooping
and
soiled
.
Bob
gave
them
to
her
when
he
came
down
to
the
station
to
see
her
off-and
very
kind
of
him
too
,
and
very
nice
they
are
;
but
all
the
same
,
as
she
has
already
a
bag
,
a
box
,
and
a
parasol
to
carry
,
she
thinks
(
though
she
barely
owns
it
to
herself
)
that
she
would
almost
as
soon
have
been
without
them
.
The
dusty
blast
blows
gentler
,
moderates
to
a
dusty
zephyr
;
the
train
is
slackening
speed
.
"
Fel
—
ton
!
"
"
Fel
—
ton
!
"
cry
a
row
of
green-fustianed
porters
,
as
the
long
bulk
draws
up
at
the
platform
.
"
Please
'
m
,
are
you
Miss
Craven
?
"
inquires
a
tall
footman
in
powder
and
a
cockade
,
touching
his
hat
to
Esther
,
as
she
stands
all
by
herself
,
trying
to
take
several
beams
out
of
her
own
eye
.
"
Yes
.
"
"
The
carriage
is
here
for
you
,
'
m
.
Would
you
please
to
show
me
which
is
your
maid
and
luggage
?
"
"
I
have
no
maid
,
and
there
's
my
luggage
,
"
responds
Esther
,
pointing
with
one
grimy
kid
finger
to
a
small
trunk
standing
on
its
head
,
and
looking
half
inclined
to
burst
asunder
in
the
midst
.
She
is
ashamed
of
her
destitute
condition
,
and
ashamed
of
herself
for
being
ashamed
of
it
.
"
Will
it
change
into
a
pumpkin
?
"
thinks
Miss
Craven
,
as
she
steps
into
a
large
yellow
barouche
,
with
two
fidgety
,
showy
greys
,
that
is
waiting
for
her
at
the
station
gate
.
After
the
yammering
of
the
baby
,
the
dull
rumble-rumble
of
the
train
,
how
delicious
!
"
If
it
were
only
my
own
,
"
she
says
to
herself
,
throwing
herself
back
with
a
consequential
feeling
on
the
soft
cushions
,
as
some
country
people
pass
and
pull
their
forelocks
to
the
well-known
liveries
.
"
Well
,
odder
things
have
happened
!
But
for
Bob
!
The
Prince
fell
in
love
with
Cinderella
at
first
sight
;
why
should
not
Prince
Gerard
with
me
?
I
dare
say
I
'm
quite
as
good-looking
as
Cinderella
was
!
"
As
they
pass
Lady
Gerard
's
model
school
,
twenty
little
charity
girls
come
trooping
out
in
the
uniformity
of
their
cotton
frock
and
straw
bonnet
livery
,
and
drop
twenty
bob
courtesies
to
Esther
,
who
feels
as
the
man
in
the
"
Arabian
Nights
"
did
who
woke
and
found
himself
Sultan
.
Labouring
men
go
stumping
heavily
home
,
with
their
tools
over
their
shoulders
and
their
heads
bent
earthwards
,
as
is
always
the
case
with
the
tillers
of
the
soil
,
who
must
—
oh
,
hard
necessity
!
—
be
ever
looking
down
.
Park
palings
,
through
which
the
strong
brake
fern
is
thrusting
itself
,
slide
past
;
then
a
red
lodge
,
picked
out
with
blue
bricks
,
where
an
obsequious
old
woman
rushes
out
from
the
washtub
,
with
hands
all
soapsuds
,
to
open
the
gates
;
then
a
grassy
,
knolly
park
;
then
a
great
red
house
,
likewise
picked
out
with
blue
bricks
;
then
stones
clattering
under
an
echoing
portico
;
then
the
pumpkin
stops
,
and
Cinderella
descends
.
"
Miss
Craven
!
"
announces
the
butler
,
opening
a
tall
door
;
and
Miss
Craven
,
plucking
up
heart
,
marches
into
a
high
,
dark
library
,
lined
with
high
,
dark
books
—
marches
in
,
looking
very
much
like
a
chimney
sweep
.
Dust
lies
in
ridges
on
her
once
white
bonnet
;
dust
,
instead
of
belladonna
,
in
streaks
under
her
eyes
;
dust
on
the
parting
of
her
hair
,
on
her
eyelashes
,
up
her
nose
(
on
which
there
is
also
,
though
,
happily
for
her
,
she
does
not
know
it
,
a
large
smut
)
,
and
a
double
portion
of
dust
on
the
great
,
faded
,
yellow
roses
,
to
which
she
cleaves
with
as
much
pertinacity
as
the
idiot
in
"
Excelsior
"
clave
to
that
senseless
banner
which
he
was
so
determined
to
run
up
hill
with
.
As
she
enters
,
a
goddess
rises
like
an
exhalation
(
as
Pandemonium
did
)
,
and
comes
floating
on
lilac
clouds
towards
her
.
This
is
as
things
seem
to
her
;
in
reality
,
a
large
,
fair
,
young
woman
comes
forward
in
a
long-tailed
mauve
muslin
.
Simultaneously
a
man
's
two
legs
are
seen
disappearing
over
the
window-sill
.
"
How
do
you
do
?
"
says
the
goddess
,
sweetly
.
"
I
think
the
train
must
have
been
rather
late
;
we
expected
you
half
an
hour
ago
.
"
"
Yes
.
"
A
little
pause
,
each
taking
stock
.
"
Wo
n't
you
have
some
tea
?
"
"
Thanks
.
"
The
tea
is
poured
out
;
it
has
been
standing
on
the
table
an
hour
,
and
is
perfectly
cold
.
The
goddess
and
the
little
female
collier
examine
each
other
stealthily
.
"
Rather
alarming
,
"
thinks
the
latter
:
"
talks
in
such
a
low
voice
,
and
has
such
a
difficulty
in
pronouncing
her
r
'
s
.
So
that
is
the
correct
thing
,
is
it
?
Well
,
I
'll
always
call
Robert
Wobert
for
the
future
.
"
"
Might
be
pretty
,
if
she
were
not
so
filthy
,
"
thinks
the
other
.
"
Same
age
as
I
am
,
indeed
!
She
looks
five
years
older
.
"
"
I
think
,
if
you
do
n't
mind
,
we
had
perhaps
better
be
going
to
dress
.
Sir
Thomas
is
so
very
particular
as
to
punctuality
.
"
"
Is
he
?
was
that
Sir
Thomas
that
got
out
of
the
window
just
as
I
came
in
?
"
"
Oh
no
!
that
was
St.
John
.
"
(
"
St.
John
!
What
a
pretty
name
!
How
much
prettier
than
Bob
!
"
)
Sir
Thomas
Gerard
is
walking
up
and
down
the
library
,
with
his
watch
in
his
hand
,
prepared
the
instant
the
clock
strikes
to
ring
the
bell
violently
,
and
inquire
what
is
the
meaning
of
dinner
being
so
late
.
Sir
Thomas
is
a
big
man
,
who
affects
the
country
squire
,
the
good
,
old
English
gentleman
—
plain
Sir
Thomas
,
without
any
nonsense
about
him
;
dresses
to
the
character
,
and
succeeds
in
looking
not
unlike
the
Frenchman
's
idea
of
an
English
milord
,
as
depicted
in
Punch
some
years
ago
,
where
he
is
represented
in
low-crowned
hat
and
breeches
,
with
the
face
of
a
truculent
butcher
,
cracking
a
whip
,
and
exclaiming
,
with
equal
coherency
and
elegance
,
"
Rosbif
!
I
send
my
wife
to
Smiffel
!
God
dam
!
"
Sir
Thomas
does
not
use
such
strong
language
when
speaking
of
Lady
Gerard
,
but
in
other
respects
the
portrait
is
not
unfaithful
.
Lady
Gerard
is
lying
in
an
arm-chair
.
She
is
fat
to
make
you
shudder
;
she
has
a
short
,
turn-up
nose
,
short
legs
,
a
red
skin
,
and
next
to
no
hair
—
all
very
good
points
in
a
pig
,
but
hardly
so
good
in
a
lady
.
The
clock
strikes
,
and
at
the
same
instant
the
butler
opens
the
door
,
and
announces
"
Dinner
!
"
"
Come
along
,
Conny
!
"
says
Sir
Thomas
,
sticking
out
his
elbow
to
his
ward
.
"
Are
not
you
going
to
wait
for
Miss
Craven
?
And
St.
John
is
not
down
,
either
,
"
suggests
Lady
Gerard
,
who
is
hoisting
herself
slowly
up
out
of
her
chair
.
"
Wait
for
'
em
?
Not
I
,
"
responds
Sir
Roger
de
Coverley
.
"
If
people
do
n't
choose
to
conform
to
the
rules
of
my
house
,
they
may
go
without
their
dinner
for
all
I
care
,
and
serve
'
em
right
,
too
.
Come
along
,
Conny
!
"
The
soup
is
nearly
ended
when
two
people
,
who
have
come
together
by
a
fortuitous
concourse
of
atoms
at
the
door
,
make
a
simultaneous
entry
into
the
dining-room
.
"
Companions
in
iniquity
!
"
says
St.
John
,
with
a
sarcastic
look
at
his
father
,
bowing
to
Esther
,
as
he
seats
himself
beside
Miss
Blessington
.
"
How
do
?
"
says
Sir
Thomas
,
putting
out
his
left
hand
(
his
right
is
still
grasping
his
spoon
)
.
"
Never
wait
for
anybody
here
;
would
not
let
the
soup
get
cold
for
the
Queen
nor
the
Lord
Chancellor
either
.
"
"
Miss
Craven
mistook
you
for
Sir
Thomas
before
dinner
,
"
says
Miss
Blessington
,
in
her
sweet
,
smooth
way
to
her
neighbour
.
"
Did
she
?
Unintentional
compliments
are
always
the
most
flattering
,
"
replies
Mr.
Gerard
,
quietly
.
Then
he
looks
across
through
the
partition
wall
of
great
bigonias
in
silver
pots
,
and
sees
a
little
face
peeping
at
him
under
and
over
the
broad
crimson
leaves
.
No
one
would
ever
call
Esther
's
a
Madonna
face
.
No
artist
would
ever
ask
her
to
sit
for
St.
Catherine
,
or
St.
Cecilia
,
or
St.
Anybody
else
;
hers
is
essentially
beauté
du
diable
—
one
of
those
little
,
sparkling
,
provoking
,
petulant
faces
that
have
a
fresh
dress
of
smiles
or
tears
,
or
dimples
or
blushes
,
for
every
trivial
,
passing
question
;
one
of
those
little
faces
that
have
been
at
the
bottom
of
half
the
mischiefs
the
world
has
seen
.
"
I
only
saw
a
pair
of
legs
,
"
replies
the
face
,
exculpating
itself
;
"
how
could
I
tell
whether
they
were
young
or
old
legs
?
"
Miss
Blessington
looks
rather
shocked
,
as
if
she
thought
that
Esther
's
modes
of
expression
were
somewhat
libre
;
and
indeed
at
the
rate
of
purity
at
which
we
are
advancing
,
legs
will
soon
walk
off
into
the
limbo
of
silence
and
unmentionableness
;
arms
will
probably
follow
them
,
and
then
perhaps
noses
.
Although
Miss
Blessington
looks
shocked
,
St.
John
only
laughs
.
He
looks
pleasant
when
he
laughs
;
he
did
not
look
pleasant
just
now
,
when
he
was
turning
up
his
nose
at
his
cold
soup
.
When
he
is
in
an
ill-humour
he
has
a
decided
look
of
his
father
,
though
it
puts
him
into
an
awful
rage
to
tell
him
so
.
He
is
not
handsome
,
certainly
;
not
a
straight-nosed
,
pink-cheeked
,
flaxen-curled
,
fairy
prince
at
all
;
neither
is
he
very
young
—
not
a
boy
,
that
is
to
say
—
five-and-thirty
,
or
thereabouts
;
his
face
has
a
weather-beaten
look
,
as
of
one
that
has
felt
many
an
icy
wind
and
many
a
tropic
sun
beat
against
it
.
No
lily-handed
,
curled
woman
's
darling
.
"
What
do
you
mean
?
"
cries
Sir
Thomas
,
raising
his
voice
,
and
turning
round
in
a
fury
(
with
his
stiff
grey
hair
standing
upright
,
and
the
veins
in
his
forehead
swelling
)
upon
an
unlucky
footman
,
who
has
had
the
maladresse
to
drop
three
spoons
that
he
was
carrying
upon
a
tray
.
"
You
stupid
hound
,
mind
what
you
are
about
,
or
else
keep
out
of
the
room
,
one
or
the
other
!
"
Esther
's
mouth
opens
;
she
feels
a
sensation
of
shame-faced
aghastness
;
but
the
rest
of
the
company
sit
with
the
composure
induced
by
long
familiarity
with
the
good
old
English
gentleman
's
courtesies
.
Only
one
little
flash
of
indignant
contempt
shoots
from
St.
John
's
grey
eyes
.
"
How
I
hate
my
father
!
"
would
be
his
reading
of
the
great
statesman
's
dying
ejaculation
,
"
How
I
love
my
country
!
"
Nobody
ever
speaks
much
at
dinner
at
Felton
.
St.
John
because
he
knows
,
if
he
trusted
himself
to
speak
at
all
,
it
would
be
to
contradict
his
father
flat
whatever
he
said
,
for
the
mere
pleasure
of
contradicting
him
;
Lady
Gerard
because
she
has
heard
that
it
is
impossible
to
do
two
things
well
at
the
same
time
,
and
as
she
is
quite
resolved
upon
doing
the
eating
part
well
,
she
thinks
she
will
leave
the
talking
alone
;
Miss
Blessington
because
,
having
contributed
her
hard
,
cold
beauty
to
the
entertainment
,
she
thinks
she
has
done
