 Where Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forster, read for you by Julie Pandia, Chapter 4. The advance of regret can be so gradual that it is impossible to say, yesterday I was happy, today I am not. At no one moment did Lily realize that her marriage was a failure. Yet during the summer and autumn she became as unhappy as it was possible for her nature to be. She had no unkind treatment and few unkind words for her husband. He simply left her alone. In the morning he went out to do business, which as far as she could discover meant sitting in the Fama Chia. He usually returned to lunch, after which he retired to another room and slept. In the evening he grew vigorous again and took the air on the ramparts, often having his dinner out, and seldom returning till midnight or later. There were, of course, the times when he was away altogether, at Empoli, Siena, Florence, Bologna, for he delighted in travel and seemed to pick up friends all over the country. Lily often heard what a favorite he was. She began to see that she must assert herself, but she could not see how. Her self-confidence, which had overthrown Philip, had gradually oozed away. If she left the strange house there was the strange little town. If she were to disobey her husband and walk in the country that would be stranger still. Vast slopes of olives and vineyards with chalk-white farms, and in the distance other slopes with more olives and more farms, and more little towns outlined against the clouds the sky. I don't call this country, she would say. Why, it's not as wild as Sauston Park. And indeed there was scarcely a touch of wildness in it. Some of those slips had been under cultivation for two thousand years. But it was terrible and mysterious all the same, and its continued presence made Lily as so uncomfortable that she forgot her nature and began to reflect. She reflected chiefly about her marriage. The ceremony had been hasty and expensive, and the rites, whatever they were, were not those of the Church of England. Lily had no religion in her, but for hours at a time she would be seized with the vulgar fear that she was not married properly, and that her social position in the next world might be as obscure as it was in this. It might be safer to do the thing thoroughly, and one day she took the advice of Sparadoni and joined the Roman Catholic Church, or as she called it, Santadeodatas. Gina approved. He too thought it safer, and it was fun confessing, though the priest was a stupid old man, and the whole thing was a good slap in the face for the people at home. The people at home took the slap very soberly. Indeed there were few left for her to give it to. The heritans were out of the question. They would not even let her write to Irma. The Irma was occasionally allowed to write to her. Mrs. Theobald was rapidly subsiding into dotage, and as far as she could be definite about anything, she had definitely sided with the heritans. And Miss Abbott did likewise. Night after night did Lily accursed this false friend, who had agreed with her that the marriage would do, and that the heritans would come round to it. And then at the first hint of opposition had fled back to England shrieking in distraught, Miss Abbott headed the long list of those who should never be written to, and who should never be forgiven. Almost the only person who was not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had unexpectedly sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quite sure never to cross the channel, and Lily adrew freely on her fancy in their reply. At first she had seen a few English people, for Montariana was not the end of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies who had heard at home of her quarrel with the heritans came to call. She was very sprightly, and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gina was charming boy, so all that was to the good. But my May, the season, such as it was, had finished, and there would be no until next spring. As Mrs. Heritans had often observed, Lily had no resources. She did not like music or reading or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blousy high spirits, which turned quarrelous and boisterous, according to circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Heritans might have envied, Gina made her do what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand, but it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lily and nearly touched it. It was the old question of going out alone. I always do it in England. This is Italy. Yes, but I'm older than you, and I'll settle. I am your husband, he said, smiling. They had finished their midday meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up until at last Lily had getting more and more angry, said. And I've got the money. He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got it from his chair. And you'd better mend your manner, she continued, for you'd find it awkward if I stopped drawing checks. She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards, none of his clothes seemed to fit too big in one place, too small in another. His figure, rather than his face, altered the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged around the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. What has happened? cried Lillia, nearly fainting. He is ill, ill! Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. What did you say to him? She crossed herself. Hardly anything so, Lillia, and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lillia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened, too, employing her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her murmuring. It was not I, striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady, or to manage a wife. And his own social position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions and the trades. He may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the Italian dentist felt this, too. For himself nothing mattered. He made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious and variable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere, rather than visit wrongly. Seclusion was both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time the South had won. It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behavior as he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him for a moment. His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not behave as such. Of course had Lily had been different had she asserted herself and got a grip on his character. He might possibly, though not probably, have been made a better husband as well as a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lily had been different she might not have married him. The discovery of his infidelity, which he made by accident, destroyed such remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might possess. She broke down utterly and sobbed and cried in Perfetta's arms. Perfetta was kind and even sympathetic but cautioned her on no account to speak to Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lily agreed, partly because she was afraid of him, partly because it was, after all, the best and most dignified thing to do. She had given up everything for him, her daughter, her relatives, her friends, all the little comforts and luxuries of his civilized life, and even if she had the courage to break away there was no one who would receive her now. The heritans had been almost malignant in their efforts against her, and all of her friends had one by one fallen off. So it was about her to live on humbly, trying not to feel, endeavouring by a cheerful demeanor to put things right. Perhaps she thought if I have a child who be different, I know he wants a son. Lily had achieved pesos despite herself, for there are some situations in which vulgarity counts no longer. Not Cordelia nor Imogen Moore deserves our tears. She herself cried frequently, making herself look plain and old, which distressed her husband. He was particularly kind to her when he hardly ever saw her, and she accepted his kindness without resentment, even with gratitude. So docile had she become. She did not hate even as she had never loved him. With her it was only when she was excited that the semblance of either passion arose. Pupil said she was headstrong, but really her weak brain left her cold. Suffering, however, is more independent of temperament, and the wisest of women hardly have suffered more. As for Gino he was quite as boyaged as ever and carried his iniquities like a feather. A favorite speech of his was, ah, one ought to marry. Spiridone is wrong, I must persuade him. Not till marriage does one realize the pleasures and the possibilities of life. So saying he would take down his felt hat, strike it in the right place as infallibly as a German strikes his in the wrong place, and leave her. One evening when he had gone out thus Lily could stand it no longer. It was September. Sauston would be just filling up after the summer holidays. People would be running in and out of each other's houses all along the road. There were bicycle-gimkanas, and on the thirtieth Mrs. Harriton would be holding the annual bazaar in her garden for the CMS. It seemed impossible that such a free, happy life could exist. She walked out onto the loggia, moonlight and stars in a soft purple sky. The walls of Montereyano should be glorious in such a night as this, but the house faced away from them. Perfetta was banging in the kitchen, and the stairs down led past the kitchen door. But the stairs up to the attic, the stairs no one ever used, opened out of the living room, and by unlocking the door at the top one might slip out to the square terrace above the house, and thus for ten minutes walk in freedom and peace. The key was in the pocket of Gino's best suit, the English check which he never wore. The stairs creaked and the keyhole screamed, but Perfetta was growing deaf. The walls were beautiful, but as they faced west they were in a shadow. To see the light upon them she must walk round the town a little till they were caught by the beams of the rising moon. She looked anxiously at the house and started. It was easy walking, for the little path ran all outside the ramparts. The few people she met wished her a civil good night, taking her and her hatless condition for a peasant. The walls trended round towards the moon, and presently she came into its light, and saw all the rough towers turn into pillars of silver and black and the ramparts into cliffs of pearl. She had no great sense of beauty, but she was sentimental and she began to cry. For here, where great cypress interrupted the monotony of the girdle of olives, she had sat with Gino one afternoon in March, her head upon his shoulder, while Caroline was looking at the view and sketching. Round the corner was the sea and a gate from which the road to England started, and she could hear the rumble of the diligence which was going down to catch the night train to Umpoli. The next moment it was upon her, for the high road came towards her a little before it began its long zigzag down the hill. The driver slackened and called to her to get in. He did not know who she was. He hoped she might be coming to the station. No, Vango, she cried. They wished her good night and turned his horses down the corner. As the diligence came round she saw that it was empty. Vango! Her voice was tremulous and did not carry, though horses swung off. Vango! Vango! He had begun to sing and heard nothing. She ran down the road screaming to him to stop, that she was coming. While the distance grew greater and the noise of the diligence increased. The man's back was black and square against the moon, and if he would but turn for an instant she would be saved. She tried to cut off the corner of the zigzag, stumbling over the great clouds of earth, large and hard as rocks, which lay between the eternal olives. She was too late, for just before she regained the road the things swept past her, thunderous, plowing up choking clouds of moonlit dust. She did not call any more, for she felt very ill and fainted, and when she revived she was lying in the road, with dust in her eyes and dust in her mouth and dust down her ears. There is something very terrible and dust in the night time. What shall I do? she moaned. He will be so angry. And without further effort she slowly climbed back to captivity, shaking her grums as she went. Ill luck pursued her to the end. It was one of the nights when Gino happened to come in. He was in the kitchen, swearing and smashing plates while Perfetta, her apron over her head, was weeping violently. At the sight of Lily he turned upon her and poured forth a flood of miscellaneous abuse. He was far more angry but much less alarming than he had been that day when he edged after her round the table. And Lily gained more courage from her bad conscience than she had ever heard from her good one. For as he spoke she was seized with indignation and feared him no longer, and saw him for a cruel, worthless, hypocritical, disillute upstart and spoke in return. Perfetta screamed for she told him everything, all she knew and all she thought. He stood with open mouth on the anger gone out of him, feeling ashamed and an utter fool. He was fairly and rightfully cornered. When had a husband so given himself away before, she finished and he was dumb for she had spoken truly. Then alas the absurdity of his own position grew upon him and he laughed, as he would have laughed at the same situation on the stage. You laugh, stammered Lilia. Ah, he cried, who could help it? I who thought you knew and saw nothing. I'm tricked, I'm conquered, I give in. Let us talk of it no more. He touched her on the shoulder like a good comrade, half amused and half penitent and then murmuring and smiling to himself ran quietly out of the room. Perfetta burst into congratulations. What courage you have, she cried, and what good fortune! He is angry no longer. He has forgiven you. Neither Perfetta nor Gino nor Lilia herself knew the true reason of all the misery that followed. To the end he thought that kindness and a little attention would be enough to set things straight. His wife was a very ordinary woman, and why should her ideas differ from his own? No one realized that more than personalities were engaged, that the struggle was national, that generations of ancestors good, bad, or indifferent forbade the Latin man to be chivalrous to the northern women, the northern women to forgive the Latin man. All this might have been foreseen. Mrs. Harriton foresaw it from the first. Meanwhile Lilia prided herself on her high personal standard, and Gino simply wondered why she did not come around. He hated discomfort and yearn for sympathy but shrank from mentioning his difficulties in the town in case they were put down to his own incompetence. Spiritone was told and replied in a philosophical but not very helpful letter. His other great friend whom he trusted more was still serving in Eritrea, or some other desolate outpost. And besides, what was the good of letters? Friends could not travel through the post. Lilia, so similar to her husband in many ways, yearned for comfort in sympathy too. The night he laughed at her she wildly took up paper and pen and wrote page after page, analyzing his character, enumerating his iniquities, reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes and the growth of her misery. She was beside herself with passion, and though she could hardly think or see, she suddenly attained to magnificence and pathos, which a practised stylist might have envied. It was written like a diary and not till its conclusion did she realize for whom it was meant. Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost forgot I have a daughter. It will make you unhappy, but I want you to know everything, and you cannot learn things too soon. God bless you, my dearest, and save you. God bless you, miserable mother. When Mrs. Harrington was in when the letter arrived, she seized in and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment in Irma's placid childhood would have been destroyed forever. Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding direct communication between mother and daughter and concluding with formal condolences, nearly drove her mad. "'Gently, gently,' said her husband. They were sitting together on the lodging when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite. It's nothing. She went in and tore it up and then began to write a very short letter whose gist was, come and save me. It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes, especially if you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been reasonable and kind. It is not good when you accidentally look over her shoulder and see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you were engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her. Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many things could be arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino's, and Mr. Kingcroft never got his letter. So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the autumn lay in bed. Gino was distracted. She knew why. He wanted a son. He can talk and think of nothing else. His one desire was to become the father of a man like himself, and it held him with a grip he only partially understood. For it was the first great desire or the first great passion of his life. Falling in love was a mere physical triviality like warm sun or cool water, beside this divine hope of immortality. I continue. He gave candles to Santadeya Dutta, for he was always religious at a crisis, and sometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude uncouth demands of the simple. Impetuously he summoned all his relatives back to bear him company in his time of need. Lilia saw strange faces fleeting past her in the darkened room. My love, he would say, my dearest Lilia, be calm. I have never loved anyone but you. She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too broken by suffering to make sarcastic repartees. Before the child was born he gave her a kiss and said, I have prayed all night for a boy. Some strangely tender impulse moved her and she said faintly, You are a boy yourself, Gino. He answered, Then we shall be brothers. He lay outside the room with his head against the door like a dog. When they came to tell him the glad news, they found him half unconscious, and his face was wet with tears. As for Lilia, someone said to her, It is a beautiful boy, but she had died in giving birth to him. End of Chapter 4 The more haste, the worse speed. And to win a lady's faith nobly, as the thing is high, bravely, as for life and death with a loyal gravity. Lead her from the festive boards, point her to the starry skies, guard her by your truthful words, pure from courtship's flatteries. Mrs. Browning Mr. Henry Lannick's Margaret had been thinking of him only a moment before, and remembering his inquiry into her probable occupations at home, it was Parles du Soleil et long en voie les rayons. And the brightness of the sun came over Margaret's face as she put down her board, and went forward to shake hands with him. Tell Mama, Sarah, said she, Mama, and I want to ask so many questions about Edith. I am so much obliged to you for coming. Did I not say that I should, asked he, in a lower tone than that in which he had spoken? But I heard of you so far away in the highlands that I never thought Hampshire would come in. Oh, said he more lightly. Our young couple were playing such foolish pranks, running all sorts of risks, climbing this mountain, sailing on that lake, that I really thought they needed a mentor to take care of them. And indeed they did. They were quite beyond my uncle's management, and kept the old gentleman in a panic for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four. Indeed, when I once saw how unfit they were to be trusted alone, I thought it my duty not to leave them till I had seen them safely embarked at Plymouth. Have you been at Plymouth? Oh, Edith never named that, to be sure. She has written in such a hurry lately. Did they really sail on Tuesday? Really sailed, and relieved me from many responsibilities. Edith gave me all sorts of messages for you. I believe I have a little diminutive note somewhere, yes. Here it is. Oh, thank you, exclaimed Margaret, and then half-wishing to read it alone and underwatched, she made the excuse of going to tell her mother again. Sarah surely had made some mistake, that Mr. Lennox was there. When she had left the room, he began, in his scrutinising way, to look about him. The little drawing-room was looking at its best, in the streaming light of the morning sun. The middle window in the bow was opened, and clustering roses and the scarlet honeysuckle came peeping round the corner. The small lawn was gorgeous, with verbenas and geraniums of all bright colours, but the very brightness outside made the colours within seem poor and faded. The carpet was far from new. The chins had been often washed. The whole apartment was smaller and shabbier than he had expected. There's background and framework for Margaret herself so queenly. He took up one of the books lying on the table. It was the Paradiso of Dante, in the proper old Italian binding of White Development Gold. By it lay a dictionary, and some words copied out in Margaret's handwriting. They were a dull list of words, but somehow he liked looking at them. He put them down with the sigh. The living is evidently as small as she said. It seems strange for the Beresfords belong to a good family. Margaret, meanwhile, had found her mother. It was one of Mrs. Hale's fitful days, when everything was a difficulty and a hardship, and Mr. Lenick's appearance took this shape, although secretly she felt complimented by his thinking it worthwhile to call. It is most unfortunate we are dining early today and have nothing but cold meat, in order that the servants may get on with their dining. And yet, of course, we must ask him to dinner. Eat his brother-in-law and all. And your papa is in such low spirit this morning about something I don't know what. I went into the study just now, and he had his face on the table, covering it with his hands. I told him I was sure Halstead did not agree with him any more than with me, and he suddenly lifted up his head and begged me not to speak a word more against Halstead. He could not bear it. If there was one place he loved on earth, it was Halstead. But I'm sure for all that it is the damp and relaxing air. Margaret felt as if a thin, cold cloud had come between her and the sun. She had listened patiently in hopes that it might be some relief to her mother to unburden herself. But now it was time to draw her back to Mr. Lenick's. Papa likes Mr. Lenick's. They got on together famously at the wedding breakfast. I dare say his coming will do Papa good. And never mind the dinner, dear Mamar. Cold meat will do capitely for a lunch, which is the light in which Mr. Lenick's will most likely look upon a two o'clock dinner. But what are we to do with him till then? It's only half past ten now. I'll ask him to go out sketching with me. I know he draws. And that will take him out of your way, Mamar. Only do come in now. He will think it's so strange if you don't. Mrs. Hale took off her black silk apron and smoothed her face. She looked a very pretty ladylike woman, as she greeted Mr. Lenick's with a cordiality due to one who was almost a relation. He evidently expected to be asked to spend the day, and accepted the invitation with a glad readiness that made Mrs. Hale wish she could add something to the cold beef. He was pleased with everything. Delighted with Margaret's idea of going out sketching together would not have Mr. Hale disturbed for the world, with the prospect of so soon meeting him at dinner. Margaret brought out her drawing materials for him to choose from, and after the paper and brushes had been duly selected, the two set out in the merriest spirits in the world. Now, please, just stop here for a minute or two, said Margaret. These are the cottages that haunted me so during the rainy fortnight, reproaching me for not having sketched them. Before they tumbled down and were seen no more, truly if they are to be sketched, and they are very picturesque, we had better not put it off till next year. But where shall we sit? Oh, you might have come straight from chambers in the temple instead of being two months in the highlands. Look at this beautiful trunk of a tree, which the woodcutters have left just in the right place for the light. I will put my plaid over it, and it will be a regular forest throne. With your feet in that puddle for a regal footstool, this day I will move, and then you can come nearer this way. Who lives in these cottages? They were built by squatters fifty or sixty years ago. One is uninhabited. The foresters are going to take it down as soon as the old man who lives in the other is dead, poor old fellow. Look, there he is. I must go and speak to him. He is so deaf you will hear all our secrets. The old man stood bareheaded in the sun, leaning on his stick at the front of his cottage. His stiff features relaxed into a slow smile as Margaret went up and spoke to him. Mr. Lennox hastily introduced the two figures into his sketch, and finished up the landscape with a subordinate reference to them. As Margaret perceived, when the time came for getting up, putting away water and scraps of paper, and exhibiting to each other their sketches, she laughed and blushed. Mr. Lennox watched her countenance. Now, I call that treacherous, said she. I little thought you were making old Isaac and me into subjects, when you told me to ask him the history of those cottages. It was irresistible. You can't know how strong a temptation it was. I hardly dare tell you how much I shall like this sketch. He was not quite sure whether she heard this latter sentence before she went back to the brook to wash her pallet. She came back rather flushed, but looking perfectly innocent and unconscious. He was glad of it, for the speech had slipped from him unawares. A rare thing in the case of a man who premeditated his actions so much as Henry Lennox. The aspect of home was all right and bright when they reached it. The clouds on her mother's brow had cleared off under the propitious influence of a brace of carp, most opportunely presented by a neighbour. Mr. Hale had returned from his morning's round, and was awaiting his visitor just outside the wicket gate that led into the garden. He looked a complete gentleman in his rather thread-bare coat and well-worn hat. Margaret was proud of her father. She had always affreshened tender pride in seeing how favourably he impressed every stranger. Still, her quick eye sought over his face, and found their traces of some unusual disturbance, which was only put aside, not cleared away. Mr. Hale asked to look at their sketches. I think you have made the tints on the fetch too dark, have you not, as he returned Margaret's to her, and held out his hand for Mr. Lennox's, which was withheld from him one moment no more. No, Papa, I don't think I have. The house-leakened stone-crop have grown so much darker in the rain. Is it not like, Papa, said she, peeping over his shoulder, as he looked at the figures in Mr. Lennox's drawing? Yes, very like. Your figure and way of holding yourself is capital. And it is just poor old Isaac's stiff way of stooping his long, rheumatic back. What is this, hanging from the branch of the tree, not a bird's nest? Surely. Oh, no! That is my bonnet. I can never draw with my bonnet on. It makes my head so hot. I wonder if I could manage figures. There are so many people about here I should like to sketch. I should say that a likeness you very much wish to take you would always succeed in, said Mr. Lennox. I have great faith in the power of will. I think myself I have succeeded pretty well in yours. Mr. Hale had proceeded them into the house, while Margaret was lingering to pluck some roses, with which to adorn her morning-gown for dinner. A regular London girl would understand the implied meaning of that speech, thought Mr. Lennox. She would have been up to looking through every speech that a young man made her for the arrière-pensée of a compliment. But I don't believe Margaret— Stay, exclaimed he. Let me help you. And he gathered for her some velvety, cramoise roses that were above her reach, and then dividing the spoil he placed two in his button-hole and sent her in, pleased and happy, to arrange her flowers. The conversation at dinner flowed on quietly and agreeably. There were plenty of questions to be asked on both sides, the latest intelligence which each could give of Mrs. Shaw's movements in Italy to be exchanged, and in the interest of what was said, the unpretending simplicity of the past niche ways, above all in the neighbourhood of Margaret, Mr. Lennox forgot the little feeling of disappointment with which he had first perceived that she had spoken but the simple truth. When she had described her father's living as very small. Margaret, my child, you might have gathered us some pairs for our dessert, said Mr. Hale, as the hospitable luxury of a freshly decanted bottle of wine was placed on the table. Mrs. Hale was hurried. It seemed as if desserts were impromptu and unusual things at the past niche, whereas if Mr. Hale could only have looked behind him, he would have seen biscuits and marmalade and what not, all arranged in formal order on the sideboard. But the idea of pairs had taken possession of Mr. Hale's mind and was not to be got rid of. There were a few brown puree against the south wall, which are worth all foreign fruits and preserves. Run, Margaret, and gather some. I propose that we adjourn into the garden and eat them there, said Mr. Lennox. Nothing is so delicious as to set one's teeth into the crisp but juicy fruit, warm and scented by the sun. At the worst is the wasps are impudent enough to dispute it with one, even at the very crisis and summit of enjoyment. He rose, as if to follow Margaret, who had disappeared through the window. He only awaited Mrs. Hale's permission. She would rather have wound up the dinner in the proper way and with all the ceremonies which had gone on so smoothly hitherto, especially as she and Dixon had got out the finger-glasses from the storeroom on purpose to be as correct as became General Shaw's widow's sister. But, as Mr. Hale got up directly and prepared to accompany his guest, she could only submit. I shall arm myself with a knife, said Mr. Hale, the days of eating fruit so primitively as you described are over with me. I must pair it and quarter it before I can enjoy it. Margaret made a plate for the pears out of a beetroot leaf, which threw up their golden brown colour admirably. Mr. Lennox looked more at her than at the pears, but her father, inclined to cull fastidiously the very zest and perfection of the hour he had stolen from his anxiety, chose daintily the ripest fruit, and sat down on the garden bench to enjoy it at his leisure. Margaret and Mr. Lennox strolled along the little terraced walk under the south wall, where the bees still hummed and worked busily in their hives. What a perfect life you seem to live here! I have always felt rather contemptuously towards the poets before with their wishes, mine be a cot beside a hill, and all that sort of thing, but now I am afraid that the truth is I have been nothing better than a cockney. Just now I feel as if 20 years' hard study of law would be amply rewarded by one year of such an exquisite serene life as this, such skies looking up, such crimson and ambifoliage, so perfectly motionless as that. Pointing to some of the great forest trees which shut in the garden as if it were a nest. You must please remember that our skies are not always as deep blue as they are now. We have rain, and our leaves do fall and get sodden, though I think Elston is about as perfect a place as any in the world. Recollect how you rather scorned my description of it one evening in Harley Street. A village in a tale. Scorned, Margaret? That's rather a hard word. Perhaps it is. Only I know I should have liked to have talked to you of what I was very full at the time. And you, what must I call it then, spoke disrespectfully of Elston as a mere village in a tale. I will never do so again, said he warmly. They turned the corner of the walk. I could almost wish, Margaret. He stopped and hesitated. It was so unusual for the fluent lawyer to hesitate that Margaret looked up at him in a little state of questioning wonder. But in an instant from what about him she could not tell, she wished herself back with her mother, her father, anywhere away from him. For she was sure he was going to say something to which she should not know what to reply. In another moment the strong pride that was in her came to conquer her sudden agitation, which she hoped he had not perceived. Of course she could answer, and answer the right thing. And it was poor and despicable of her to shrink from hearing any speech, as if she had not power to put an end to it with her high maidenly dignity. Margaret, said he, taking her by surprise and getting sudden possession of her hands so that she was forced to stand still and glisten, despising herself for the fluttering at her heart all the time. Margaret, I wish you did not like Elston so much. Did not seem so perfectly calm and happy here. I have been hoping for these three months past to find you regretting London and London friends a little, enough to make you listen more kindly. For she was quietly, but firmly, striving to extricate a hand from his grasp. To one who has not much to offer it is true, nothing but prospect in the future. But who does love you, Margaret? Almost in spite of himself. Margaret, have I startled you too much? Speak, for he saw her lips quivering almost as if she were going to cry. She made a strong effort to be calm. She would not speak till she had succeeded in mastering her voice. And then she said, I was startled. I did not know that you cared for me in that way. I have always thought of you as a friend, and please, I would rather go on thinking of you so. I don't like to be spoken to as you have been doing. I cannot answer you as you want me to do, and yet I should feel so sorry if I vexed you. Margaret, said he, looking into her eyes, which met his with an open, straight look, expressive of the utmost good faith and reluctance to give pain. Do you, he was going to say, love anyone else? But it seemed as if this question would be an insult to the pure serenity of those eyes. Forgive me, I have been too abrupt. I am punished. Only, let me hope. Give me the poor comfort of telling me that you have never seen anyone whom you could, again, a pause, he could not end his sentence. Margaret reproached herself acutely as the cause of his distress. Oh, if you had but never got this fancy into your head, it was such a pleasure to think of you as a friend. But I may hope, may I not, Margaret, that some time you will think of me as a lover? Not yet. I see there is no hurry, but some time. She was silent for a minute or two, trying to discover the truth as it was in her own heart before replying. Then she said, I have never thought of you, but as a friend. I like to think of you so. But I am sure I could never think of you as anything else. Pray let us both forget that all this disagreeable, she was going to say, but stop short. Conversation has taken place. He paused before he replied. Then, in his habitual coldness of tone, he answered, Of course, as your feelings are so decided, and as this conversation has been so evidently unpleasant to you, it had better not be remembered. That is all very fine in theory, that plan of forgetting whatever is painful, but it will be somewhat difficult for me, at least, to carry it into execution. You are vexed, said she sadly. Yet how can I help it? She looked so truly grieved, as she said this, that he struggled for a moment with his real disappointment, and then answered more cheerfully, but still with a little hardness in his tone. You should make allowances for the mortification not only of a lover, Margaret, but of a man not given to romance in general. Prudent, worldly, as some people call me, who has been carried out of his usual habits by the force of her passion. Well, we all say no more of that. But in the one outlet which he has formed for the deeper and better feelings of his nature, he meets with rejection and repulse. I shall have to console myself with scorning my own folly, a struggling barrister to think of matrimony. Margaret could not answer this. The whole tone of it annoyed her. It seemed to touch on and call out all the points of difference which had often repelled her in him, while yet he was the pleasantest man, the most sympathising friend, the person of all others who understood her best in Harley Street. She felt a tinge of contempt mingle itself with her pain at having refused him. Her beautiful lip, curled in a slight disdain. It was well that, having made the round of the garden, they came suddenly upon Mr. Hale, whose whereabouts had been quite forgotten by them. He had not yet finished the pair which he had delicately peeled in one long strip of silver paper thinness, and which he was enjoying in a deliberate manner. It was like the story of the Eastern King who dipped his head into a basin of water at the magician's command, and ere he instantly took it out went through the experience of a lifetime. Margaret felt stunned and unable to recover her self-possession enough to join in the trivial conversation that ensued between her father and Mr. Lennox. She was grave and little disposed to speak, full of wonder when Mr. Lennox would go, and allow her to relax into thought on the events of the last quarter of an hour. He was almost as anxious to take his departure as she was for him to leave, but a few minutes light and careless talking carried on at whatever effort was a sacrifice which he owed to his mortified vanity or his self-respect. He glanced from time to time at a sad and pensive face. I am not so indifferent to her as she believes, thought he to himself. I do not give up hope. Before a quarter of an hour was over he had fallen into the way of conversing with quiet sarcasm, speaking of life in London and life in the country as if he were conscious of his second mocking self and afraid of his own satire. Mr. Hale was puzzled. His visitor was a different man to what he had seen before at the wedding breakfast, and at dinner to-day, a lighter, cleverer, more worldly man, and as such, dissonant to Mr. Hale. It was a relief to all three when Mr. Lennox said he must go directly if he meant to catch the five o'clock train. They proceeded to the house to find Mrs. Hale and wish her good-bye. At the last moment Henry Lennox's real self broke through the crust. Margaret, don't despise me. I have a heart notwithstanding all this good-for-nothing way of talking. As a proof of it, I believe I love you more than ever. If I do not hate you, for the disdain with which you have listened to me during this last half hour. Goodbye, Margaret. Margaret. End of Chapter 3 Ah, cruel three, in such an hour beneath such dreamy weather, to beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather, yet what can one poor voice avail against three tongues together? Imperious Prima flashes forth her edict to begin it. In gentler tones, Sukunda hopes there will be nonsense in it, while Tosha interrupts the tale not more than once a minute. Anon, to sudden silence one, in fancy they pursue the dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and new, in friendly chat with bird or beast, and half believe it true. And ever, as the story drained the wells of fancy dry, and faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by, the rest next time, it is next time, the happy voices cry. Thus grew the tale of wonderland. Thus, slowly, one by one, its quaint events were hammered out. And now the tale is done, and home we steer a merry crew beneath the setting sun. Alice, a childish story take, and with a gentle hand lay it where childhood's dreams are twined in memory's mystic band, like pilgrims withered wreath of flowers plucked in a far-off land. Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do. Once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it. And what is the use of a book? thought Alice, without pictures or conversations. So she was considering in her own mind, as well she could for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid. Whether the pleasure of making a daisy chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so very remarkable in that, nor did Alice think it so very much out of the ordinary to hear the rabbit say to itself, oh dear, oh dear, I shall be late. When she thought about it afterwards it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural. But when the rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she'd never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat pocket or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down, to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. First she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything. Then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and bookshelves. Here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed. It was labelled Orange Marmalade, but to her great disappointment it was empty. She did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so she managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell. Well, thought Alice, after such a full as this I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs. How brave they'll all think me at home! I wouldn't say anything about it even if I fell off the top of the house, which was very likely true. Down, down, down, would the fall never come to an end? I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time, she said aloud. I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see. That would be four thousand miles down, I think. For you see Alice had learned several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom. And though this was not a very good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over. Yes, that's about the right distance, but then I wonder what latitude or longitude I've gotten to. Alice had no idea what latitude was or longitude either, but thought they were very nice grand words to say. Presently she began again. I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth. How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downwards, the antipathies, I think. She was rather glad there was no one listening this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word. But I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia? And she tried to curtsy as she spoke. Fancy curtsying as you're falling through the air. Do you think you could manage it? And what an ignorant little girl shall think me for asking. No, it'll never do to ask. Perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere. Down, down, down! There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. Dino will miss me very much tonight, I should think. Dino was the cat. I hope they'll remember her salsa of milk at tea time. Dino, my dear, I wish you were down here with me. There are no mice out in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and it's very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder. And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, Do cats eat bats, eat bats? And sometimes, do bats eat cats? For you see, as she couldn't answer either question, it didn't matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dino, and saying to her very earnestly, Now Dino, tell me the truth. Did you ever eat a bat? When suddenly, thump, thump, down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over. Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on her feet in a moment. She looked up, but it was all dark overhead. Before hope was another long passage, and the white rabbit was still inside, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost, away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say as it turned the corner. Oh my ears and whiskers! How late is getting? She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the rabbit was no longer to be seen. She found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps, hanging from the roof. There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked, and when Alice had been all the way down one side, and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again. Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass. There was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice's first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall. But alas! Either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before. And behind it was a little door about 15 inches high. She tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted. Alice opened the door, and found that it led into a small passage not much larger than a rat hole. She knelt down, and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander among those beds of bright flowers, and those cool fountains. But she could not even get her head through the doorway. And even if my head would go through, thought poor Alice, it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin. For you see, so many out of the way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible. There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes. This time she found a little bottle on it, which certainly was not here before, said Alice. And round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words, Drink me! Beautifully printed on it in large letters. It was all very well to say, Drink me! But the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. No, I'll look first, she said, and see whether it's marked poison or not. For she had read several nice little histories about children who'd gotten burnt and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them, such as that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long, and that if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds. And she had never forgotten that if you drink much from a bottle marked poison, it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was not marked poison, so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast. She very soon finished it off. What a curious feeling, said Alice. I must be shutting up like a telescope. And so it was indeed. She was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further. She felt a little nervous about this. For it might end, you know, said Alice to herself, in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I shouldn't be like then. And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once. But alas for poor Alice! When she got to the door, she found she had forgotten the little gold key, and when she went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach it. She could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the table. But it was too slippery. And when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. Come! There's no use in crying like that! said Alice to herself, rather sharply. I advise you to leave off this minute. She generally gave herself very good advice, though she very seldom followed it. And sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes. And once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet, she was playing against herself. For this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. But it's no use now, thought poor Alice, to pretend to be two people. Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person. Soon her eye fell in a little glass box that was lying under the table. She opened it, and found in it a very small cake on which the words eat me were beautifully marked in currents. Well, I'll eat it, said Alice, and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key. And if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door, so either way I'll get into the garden, and I don't care which happens. She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing. And she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size. To be sure this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out of the way things to happen that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way. So she's set to work, and very soon finished off the cake. End of chapter one. This recording is within the public domain.