 CHAPTER XXVIII DEMESTIK EXPERIENCES Like most other young madrins, Meg began her married life with determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a paradise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and bustled about like a true Martha, combered with many cares. She was too tired sometimes, even to smile. John grew despeptic after a course of dainty dishes and ungrateful demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself, and see if his work would stand impatient in clumsy fingers any better than hers. They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn't live on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty diminished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee-pot. Nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his kiss with a tender inquiry, shall I send some veal or mutton for dinner, darling? The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but it became a home, and the young people soon felt that it was a change for the better. At first they played keep-house and froliced over it like children. Then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders, and Meg, laid by her cambrick-breppers, put on a big apron and fell to work, as before said, with more energy than discretion. While the cooking mania lasted, she went through Mrs. Cornelius' receipt book, as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in to help eat up a tube-bounteous feast of successes, or Lottie would be privately dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little hummels. An evening with John over the count books usually produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of bread-putting, hash, and warmed over coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what young couple seldom get along without, a family jar. Fired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own current jelly. John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra quantity of sugar, for their own currents were ripe and were to be attended to at once. As John firmly believed that my wife was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most pleasing form for winter use. One came four dozen delightful little pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currents for her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a cockatish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell to work, filling no doubts about her success, for hadn't she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times. The array of pots rather amazed her at first. The John was so fond of jelly, and the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg resolved to fill them all and spent a long day picking, boiling, straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best. She asked advice of Mrs. Cornelius. She wracked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left undone. She re-boiled, resugarred, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn't gel. She longed to run home, bib in awe, and asked Mother to lend her a hand. But John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over that last word, as if the idea it suggested was the most preposterous one. But they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with a refractory sweet-mince all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her topsy-turvy kitchen, wrung her be-dobbed hands, lifted up her voice, and wept. Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had it often said, My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he likes. I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scalding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John Deere never stopped to ask my leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me. How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior wife. But although they had had company from time to time, it never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this veil of tears there is an inevitability about such things which we can only wonder at, implore, and bear it as best we can. If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion with irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband. It is a world of disappointments as John discovered when he reached the dove-coat, the front door usually stood hospitably open, now it was not only shut but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the steps. The parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife sewing on the piazza in white with a distracting little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a sanguary-looking boy, but asleep under the current bushes. I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs. Brooke, said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude. Round the house he turned, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect muddily. In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One addition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was burning galey on the stove. Lottie, with two tonic phlegm, was calmly eating bread and current wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally. My dearest girl, what is the matter? cried John, rushing in, with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden. Oh, John, I'm so tired and hot, and cross and worried. I've been at it till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me, or I shall die! In the exhausted wife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at the same time as the floor. What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened? asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of little cap, which was all askew. Yes! sobbed Meg despairingly. Tell me quick, then, don't cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love. The jelly won't gel, and I don't know what to do. John Brooke laughed, then, as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the derisive scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hardy peel, which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe. Is that all? Fling it out the window, and don't bother any more about it. I'll buy you quartz if you want it, but for heaven's sake don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and—John got no further, for Meg cast him off and clasped her hands, with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, climbing in a tone of mingled indignation reproach and dismay. A man to dinner and everything in a mess! John Brooke! How could you do such a thing? Hush! He's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't be helped now, said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye. You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to have remembered how busy I was, continued Meg petulantly, for even turtle doves will peck when ruffled. I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if I ever do again, added John with an aggrieved air. I should hope not. Take my way at once. I can't see him, and there isn't any dinner. Well, I like that. Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the pudding you promised? cried John, rushing to the larder. I hadn't time to cook anything. I meant to dine at mother's. I'm sorry, but I was so busy, and Meg's tears began again. John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day's work to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty table, and a cross-wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or matter. He restrained himself, however, and the little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word. It's a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we'll pull through and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just exert yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We're both as hungry as hunters, so we shat mind what it is. Give us the cold meat and bread and cheese. We won't ask for jelly. He meant it to be a good natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke. You must get yourself out of this scrape as you can. I'm too used up to exert myself for anyone. It's like a man to propose a bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of a sort in my house. Take that scot up to mothers and tell him I'm away and sick, dead, anything. I won't see him, and you too can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like. You won't have anything else here. And having delivered her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her pinafore and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own room. What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew, but Mr. Scott was not taken up to mothers, and when Meg descended after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch which filled her with horror. Lottie reported that they had eaten a much and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff and hide the pots. Meg longed to go and tell mother, but a sense of shame at her own shortcomings of loyalty to John, who might be cruel, but nobody should know it, restrained her, and after a summery cleaning up, she dressed herself prettily and sat down to wait for John to come and be forgiven. Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that light. He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner and promised to come again, but John was angry, though he did not show it. He felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need. It wasn't fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time with perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word to flame up and blame him and leave him in the lurch to be laughed at or pitied, nobody George it wasn't, and Meg must know it. He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over and he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over him. Poor little thing, it was hard upon her when she tried so hardly to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was young. I must be patient and teach her. He hoped she had not gone home. He hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse. Meg likewise resolved to be calm and kind but firm, and show him his duty. She longed to run to meet him and beg pardon and be kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being. But, of course, she did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally as she rocked and sewed like a lady of leisure in her best parlor. John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Naiobi, but feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology. He made none. Only came leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with a singularly relevant remark. We're going to have a new moon, my dear. I have no objection, was Meg's equally soothing remark. A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brook and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brook, and conversation languished. John went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed as if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke, both looked quite calm and firm, and both felt desperately uncomfortable. Oh, dear, thought Meg, married life is very trying and does need infinite patience as well as love, as mother says. The word mother suggested other maternal councils given long ago and received with unbelieving protests. John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never will be obstinate if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is very accurate and particular about the truth, a good trait that you call him fussy. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a temper not like ours, one flash, and then all over, but the white, still anger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be careful, be very careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both are, and guard against the little peaks misunderstandings and hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret. These words came back to Meg as she sat sewing in the sunset, especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement. Her own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind as she recalled them, her own anger looked childish now and thoughts of poor John coming home to such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up thinking, I'll be the first to say forgive me, but he did not seem to hear her. She went very slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it. Then came the thought, this is the beginning, I'll do my part and have nothing to reproach myself with. And stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the forehead, of course that settled it. The penitence kiss was better than a world of words and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying tenderly, it was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots, forgive me my dear, I will never do it again. But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times. And so did Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace was preserved in that little family jar. After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation and served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious and made everything go off so charmingly that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the way home. In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sally Moffitt renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at the little house or inviting that poor dear to come in and spend the day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather, Meg often felt lonely. All were busy at home, John absent till night and nothing to do but sow or read or potter about. So it naturally fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing Sally's pretty things made her long for such and pity herself because she had not got them. Sally was very kind and often offered her the coveted trifles but Meg declined them knowing that John wouldn't like it. And then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked even worse. She knew her husband's income and she loved to feel that he trusted her not only with his happiness but what some men seemed to value more, his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month and remember that she was a poor man's wife. Till now she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little account books ret neatly and showed them to him monthly without fear but that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise and tempted her like a many modern Eve not with apples but with dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor. It irritated her but she was ashamed to confess it and now and then she tried to console herself by buying something pretty so that Sally needn't think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it for the pretty things were seldom necessaries but then they cost so little. It wasn't worth worrying about so the trifles increased unconsciously and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive looker on. But the trifles cost more than one could imagine and when she cast up her accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather scared her. John was busy that month and left the bills to her. The next month he was absent but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing and it weighed upon her conscience. Sally had been buying silks and Meg longed for a new one just a handsome light one for parties for black silk was so common and thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a present of $25 a piece at New Year's. That was only a month to wait and here was a lovely violet silk going at a bargain and she had the money if she only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers but would he think it right to spend not only the prospective five and 20 but another five and 20 out of the household fund. That was the question. Sally had urged her to do it had offered to lend the money and with the best intentions in life had attempted Meg beyond her strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely shimmering folds and said a bargain I assure you man. She answered I'll take it and it was cut off and paid for and Sally had exalted and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence and driven away feeling as if she had stolen something and the police were after her. When she got home she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth a lovely silk but it looked less silvery now didn't become her after all the words $50 seemed stamped like a pattern down each bread. She put it away but it haunted her not delightfully as a new dress should but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night Meg's heart sank and for the first time in her married life she was afraid of her husband. The kind brown eyes looked as if they could be stern and though he was unusually merry she fancied he had found her out but didn't mean to let her know it. The house bills were all paid the books all in order. John had praised her and was undoing the old pocket book which they called the bank when Meg knowing that it was quite empty stopped his hand saying nervously you haven't seen my private expense book yet. John never asked to see it but she always insisted on his doing so and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted and made him guess what piping was demand fiercely the meaning of a hug me tight or wonder how a little thing composed of three gross buds a bit of velvet and a pair of strings could possibly be a bonnet and cost six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance as he often did being particularly proud of his prudent wife. The little book was brought slowly out and laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead and standing there. She said with her panic increasing with every word. John dear I'm ashamed to show you my book for I've really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much. I must have things you know and Sally advised my getting it so I did and my new year's money will partly pay for it but I was sorry after I had done it for I knew you'd think it wrong in me. John laughed and drew her round beside him saying good humoredly don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you have got a pair of killing boots. I'm rather proud of my wife's feet and don't mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots if they are good ones. That had been one of her last trifles and John's eye had fallen on it as he spoke. Oh what will he say when he comes to that awful $50 thought Meg with a shiver. It's worse than boots. It's a silk dress. She said with a calmness of desperation before she wanted the worst over. Well dear, what is the damn total? As Mr. Mantellini says. That didn't sound like John and she knew he was looking up at her with a straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and answer with one as Frank till now. She turned the page and her head at the same time pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough without the 50 but which was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room was very still then John said slowly but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure. Well I don't know that 50 is much for a dress with all the furbellos and notions you have to have to finish it off these days. It isn't made or trimmed side Meg faintly for a sudden recollection of the cost still to be encouraged quite overwhelmed her. 25 yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffitt's when she gets it on, said John dryly. I know you're angry John but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste your money and I didn't think those little things would count up so. I can't resist them when I see Sally buying all she wants and pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented but it is hard and I'm tired of being poor. The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them but he did and they wounded him deeply for he had denied himself many pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the minute she had said it for John pushed the books away and got up saying with a little quiver in his voice. I was afraid of this. I do my best Meg. If he had scolded her or even shaken her it would not have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him close crying with repentant tears. Oh John my dear kind hardworking boy I didn't mean it. It was so wicked so untrue and ungrateful. How could I say it? Oh how could I say it? He was very kind forgave her readily and did not utter one reproach but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be forgotten soon although he might never allude to it again. She had promised to love him for better or worse and then she his wife had reproached him with his property after spending his earnings recklessly. It was dreadful and the worst of it was John went on so quietly afterward just as if nothing had happened except that he stayed in town later and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick and the discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new great coat reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply had said an answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change. I can't afford it my dear. Meg said no more but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with her face buried in the old great coat crying as if her heart would break. They had a long talk that night and Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty because it seemed to have made a man of him given him the strength and courage to fight his own way and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and failures of those he loved. Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sally, told the truth and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did so and had the delicacy not to make her present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the great coat and when John arrived she put it on and asked him how he liked her new silk down. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his present and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home early, Meg gatted no more and that great coat was put on in the morning by a very happy husband and taken off at night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round and at mid-summer there came to Meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life. Lori came sneaking into the kitchen of the dove coat one Saturday with an excited face and was received with a clash of symbols for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the other. How's the little mama? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me before I came home? Began Lori in a loud whisper. Happy as a queen, the dear, every soul of them is upstairs worshiping. We didn't want no hurricanes round. Now you go into the parlor and I'll send them down to you. With which some somewhat involved reply, Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically. Presently, Joe appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon a large pillow. Joe's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort. Shut your eyes and hold out your arms, she said invitingly. Lori back precipitately into a corner and put his hands behind him with an imploring gesture. No thank you, I'd rather not. I shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate. Then you shan't see your nevy, said Joe, decidedly turning as if to go. I will, I will, only you must be responsible for damages. And obeying orders Lori heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms. A peel of laughter from Joe, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah and John caused him to open them the next minute to find himself invested with two babies instead of one. No wonder they laughed for the expression of his face was drawl enough to convulse a Quaker as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious innocence to hilarious spectators with such dismay that Joe sat down on the floor and screamed. Twins by Jupiter was all he had said for a minute, then turning to the woman with an appealing look that was comically piteous. He said, take him quick somebody, I'm going to laugh and I shall drop him. Joe rescued his babies and marched up and down with one on each arm as if already initiated with mysteries of baby tending while Lori laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have told you before I set my heart on surprising you and I flatter myself I've done it, said Joe when she got her breath. I never was more staggered in my life, isn't it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name them? Let's have another look, hold me up Joe for upon my life it's one too many for me. Returned Lori regarding the infants with the air of a big benevolent newfoundling looking at a pair of infantile kittens. Boy and girl, aren't they beauties? Said the proud papa, beaming upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels. Most remarkable children I ever saw, which is which? And Lori bent like a well sweep to examine the prodigies. Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pig on the girl, French fashion so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. Kissed them Uncle Teddy, said Wicked Joe. I'm afraid they might like it. Began Lori with unusual timidity in such matters. Of course they will. They are used to it now. Do it this minute sir. Commended Joe fearing he might propose a proxy. Lori screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each little cheek that produced another laugh and made the baby squeal. There I knew they didn't like it. That's the boy, see him kick. He hits out with his fist like a good one. Now then young Brooke, pinch into a man of your own size will you? Cried Lori, delighted with a poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about. He's to be named John Lawrence and the girl Margaret after mother and grandmother. We shall call her Daisy so as to not have two megs. And I suppose the manny will be Jack unless we find a better name, said Amy with aunt-like interest. Name him Demi John and call him Demi for short, said Lori. Daisy and Demi, just the thing. I knew Teddy would do it. Cried Joe clapping her hands. Teddy certainly had done it that time. For the babies were Daisy and Demi at to the end of the chapter. End of chapter 28, recording by Catherine Monocchia. Chapter six of La Dame au Camélia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read in French by Maya Tefidis. La Dame au Camélia. By Alexandre Dumafis. Chapter six. Je trouvais Armand dans son lit. En me voyant, elle me tendit sa main brûlante. Vous avez la fièvre, lui-dige. Ce ne sera rien. La fatigue d'un voyage rapide, voilà tout. Vous venez de chez la sœur de Margaret? Oui, qui vous l'a dit? Je le sais. Et vous avez obtenu ce que vous vouliez. Oui, encore. Mais qui vous a informé du voyage et du but que j'avais en le faisant? Le jardinier du cimetière? Vous avez vu la tombe? C'est à peine si je vous ai répondre. Car le tombe, cette phrase me prouvait que celui qui me l'avait dit était toujours en proie à l'émotion dont j'avais été le témoin. Et que chaque fois que ça pensait ou la parole d'un autre le reporterait sur ce doulou au sujet. Pendant longtemps encore, cette émotion trahirait sa volonté. Je me contentais donc de répondre par un signe de tête. Il en a eu bien soin. Continuant à Armand. Deux grosses larmes roulèrent sur les joues de malades détournant la tête pour me les cacher. J'ai l'air de ne pas les voir et j'essayais de changer la conversation. Voilà trois semaines que vous êtes parties, lui dit-je. Armand passe à la main sur ses yeux et me répondit. Trois semaines justes. Votre voyage a été long. Oh, je n'ai pas toujours voyagé. J'étais malade quinze jours, sans quoi je fus revenu depuis longtemps. Mais à peine arrivée là-bas, la fièvre m'a pris. Et j'étais forcée de garder la chambre. Mais vous êtes reparties sans être bien guéris. Si j'étais restée huit jours de plus dans ce pays, j'y serais mort. Mais maintenant que vous voilà de retour, il faut vous soigner. Vos amis viendront vous voir. Moi, tout le premier, si vous me le permettez. Dans deux heures, je me lèverai. Quelle imprudence. Et le faux. Qu'est-vous donc à faire de si pressé? Il faut que j'y aille chez le commissaire de police. Pourquoi ne chargez-vous pas quelqu'un de cette mission qui peut vous rendre plus malade encore? C'est la seule chose qui puisse me guérir. Il faut que je la vois. Depuis que j'ai appris sa mort, et surtout depuis que j'ai vu sa tombe, je ne dors plus. Je ne peux pas me figurer que cette femme que j'ai quitté si jeune et si belle morte. Il faut que je m'en assure par moi-même. Il faut que je vois ce que Dieu a fait de cet être que j'ai tant aimé. Et peut-être le dégoût du spectacle remplacera-t-il le désespoir du souvenir? Je m'accompagnerai, n'est-ce pas? Si cela ne vous en eut pas trop. Que vous a dit sa sœur? Rien. Elle a pas eu fort à étonner qu'un étranger voulait acheter un terrain et faire une tombe à Marguerite. Mais ce n'est tout de suite l'autorisation que je lui demandais. Croyez-moi, attendez pour cette translation que vous soyez bien guéris. Oh, je serai force à être tranquille. D'ailleurs, je deviendrai fou si je n'en finissais au plus vite avec cette résolution dont l'accomplissement a devenu un besoin de ma douleur. Je vous jure que je ne puisse être calme que lorsque j'aurais vu Marguerite. C'est peut-être une soif de la fièvre qui me brûle, un rêve de mes insomnies, un résultat de mon délire. Mais du sez, je me faire trappiste et je rancie après avoir vu je verrai. Je comprends cela, dis-je à Armand, et je suis tout à vous. Avez-vous vu Julie Dupra? Oui, oh, je l'ai vu le jour même de mon premier retour. Vous a-t-elle remis les papiers que Marguerite lui avait laissés pour vous? Les voici. Armand tira un rouleau de dessous son enrayé et il y replace à immédiatement. Je sais par coeur ce que ses papiers depuis trois semaines, je les ai relu dix fois par jour. Vous les lierez aussi mais plus tard, quand je serai plus calme, quand je pourrais vous faire comprendre ce que cette confession révèle le coeur et l'amour. Pour le moment, j'inserve ici avec la main de vous. Le coeur? Vous avez une voiture en bas? Oui. Eh bien, voulez-vous prendre mon passeport et aller demander à la poste restante s'il y a des lettres pour moi? Mon père et ma soeur ont dû m'écrire à Paris. Partez avec une telle précipitation que je n'ai pas pris le temps de m'en reformer avant le départ. Lorsque vous viendrez, nous irons ensemble prévenir le commissaire de police de la cérémonie de demain. Armand me remis son passeport et je me rendis rouge en jacque au saut. Il avait deux lettres au nom de Duval. Je l'ai prise et je revins. Quand je reparue, Armand les est tout habillé et prêt à sortir. Merci. Je vais regarder les adresses. Oui, c'est de mon père et de ma soeur. Mais on ne doit rien comprendre à mon silence. Il ouvre les lettres. Il les devinera, plutôt qu'il l'a eu, car elles étaient de quatre pages chacune et, au bout d'un instant, il les avait replignées. Partons, me dit-il. Je répondrai demain. Nous allaient, monsieur le commissaire de police, à qui Armand remis la procuration de la soeur de Marguerite. Le commissaire lui donna un échange, pour le gardien de cimetière. Il fut convenu que la translation aurait eu le lendemain, à 10h du matin, quand je viendrais le prendre, une heure auparavant, que nous nous rendrions ensemble au cimetière. Moi aussi, j'étais curieux d'assister à ce spectacle et j'avoue que la nuit, je ne dormis pas. En jugé par les pensées qui m'assaignent, ce dû être une longue nuit pour Armand. Quand le lendemain a neuf heures, j'entrais chez lui. Il me pâle, mais il paraît ses calmes. Il me sourit et me tendit la main. Ses bougies étaient brûlées jusqu'au bout et avant de sortir, Armand pris une lettre fort épaisse adressée à son père et confinante sans doute de ses impressions de la nuit. Une heure après, nous arrivions à Montmartre. Le commissaire nous attendait déjà. On s'achemue nalantement dans la direction de la tombe de Marguerite. Le commissaire marchait le premier. Armand et moi nous le suivions à quelque part. Dans un temps, je sentais très saillir convulsivement le bras de mon compagnon comme si des frissons ne se parcouvaient tout à coup. Alors je le regardais. Ils comprenaient mon regard et me souriaient, mais depuis que nous étions sortis de chez lui, nous n'avions pas échangé une parole. Un peu avant la tombe, Armand s'arrêta pour essuyer son visage qui nondait de grosses gouttes de sueur. Je profiterais de cette hâle pour respirer, car moi-même, j'avais le cœur comprimé comme dans un éto. Nous vient le doulre plaisir qu'on prend, ces sortes de spectacles. Quand nous arrivons à la tombe, le jardinier avait retiré tous les peaux de fleurs, le triage de fer avait été enlevé et deux hommes piochés la terre. Armand s'appuia contre un arbre et regarda. Tout sa vie semble être passée dans ses yeux. Tout à coup, une des deux pioches grinsa contre une pierre. À ce bruit, Armand reculat comme à une commotion électrique et me serra la main avec une telle force qu'il me fit mal. Un faux soyeur, prune large pelle et vide à peu à peu la fosse. Puis, quand il ne me eut plus que les pierres qu'on vaut la bière, il les jeta dehors, une à une. J'observais Armand, car je craignais à chaque minute que ces sensations qui concentraient visiblement ne le brisasent. Mais il regardait toujours. Ensemblement des joues et des lèvres, prouvez-se celle qu'il était en proie à une violente crise nerveuse. Quant à moi, je ne puis dire qu'une chose. C'est que je regrette d'être venue. Quand la bière fut tout à coup découverte, le commissaire des deux faux soyeurs ouvrait. C'est à m'obéir, comme si tu t'étais la chose du monde la plus simple. La bière était en chaîne et ce mire t'a dévissé l'appareau supérieur qui faisait couvert. L'humilité de la terre avait rouillé les vis d'une odeur infecte sans exhaler malgré les plantes aromatiques dont elle était semée. Oh mon dieu, mon dieu! Meurt rarement et le palit encore. Les faux soyeurs eux-mêmes se reculèrent. Un grand insol blanc couvrait le cadavre dont on dessinait quelque signausité. Ce l'insol était presque complètement mangé à l'un des mots et laissait passer un pied de la morte. Je t'ai bien prête de me trouver mal le souvenir de cette scène m'apparaît dans son imposant de réalité. Attends-nous, il commissait. Alors un des deux hommes étendu la main se mis à découdre l'insol et le prenant par le bout découvrit brusquement le visage de Marguerite. C'était terrible à voir. C'est horrible à raconter. Les yeux ne faisaient plus que deux trous. Les lèvres avaient disparu. Et les dents blanches étaient serrées les unes contre les autres. Les longs cheveux noirs et secs et voilait un peu les cavités vertes des joues et cependant je reconnaissais dans ce visage le visage blanc, rosé, joyeux que j'avais vu si souvent. Armand, sans pouvoir détourner son regard de cette figure, avait porté son mouchoir à sa bouche et le mordait. Pour moi, il me semble là qu'un cercle de fer m'étreignait la tête. Un voile couvrit mes yeux, des bourdonnements remplir les oreilles. Tout ce que j'ai pu faire fait d'ouvrir un flacon que j'avais apporté à tout hasard et de respirer fortement les selles qui les renfermaient. Le commissaire dira Monsieur Duval. Reconnaissez-vous? Oui. Répondez sûrement le jeune homme. Alors fermez-y en portée, dit le commissaire. Les fausseurs rejetaient à l'un seul sur le visage de la morte, fermaient la bière, la prirent chacun par un bout et se dirigeèrent à l'endroit que leur avait été désignée. Armand ne bougeait pas. Ses yeux étaient rivés à cette fausse vide. Il était pâle comme le cadavre j'ai compris ce qui allait arriver lorsque la douleur diminuerait par l'absence du spectacle, et par conséquent ne soutiendrait plus. Je m'approchais du commissaire. La présence de Monsieur lui disait en montrant Armand, est-elle nécessaire encore? Non, mais il... Même je brossais de l'emmener car elle n'est pas malade. Venez, si elle aura Armand lui prenant le bras. Quoi? Vous avez raison, elle en nous a. Répondait-il machinalement mais sans faire un pas. Alors je le saisis par le bras et je l'entraînais. Je se laissais conduire comme un enfant me murant seulement de temps à autre. J'ai vu les yeux. Il se retournait comme cette vision lui rappelait. Cependant sa marche devint s'accader, il s'en met plus avancée que par ce cous. C'est dans claquet ses mains des froides le violent âge d'être nerveux mais il ne me répondait pas. Tout ce qu'il pouvait faire c'était de se laisser conduire. À la porte nous retrouvons une voiture et elle était temps. À peine utile prie place que le frisson augmenta qu'il eut une véritable attaque de mer au milieu de laquelle la crainte de mes frayers les faisait murmurer en me pressant la main. Ce n'est rien, ce n'est rien, je voudrais pleurer. Les gens dans la sa poitrine se gonflaient et le sang se portait à ses yeux et le frisson seul se manifestait encore. Avec l'aide du domestique le couchait et le fiel met un grand fait dans sa chambre je couche chez mon médecin et je racontais ce qu'il voulait de ce passé. Il a couru. Armand était pourpre, il avait les délires et baigoyait des mots sans suite à travers lesquels le non seul de Marguerite se faisait entendre distinctement. Eh bien, dis-je aux docteurs quand il eut examiné le malade. Eh bien là le fièvre cérébral n'est plus ni moins, heureusement la maladie physique tuerra la maladie morale. Dans un mois il sera sauvé de l'une et de l'autre peut-être. End of Chapter 6 Rune 43 of the Kallavala This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit librivox.org Recording by Squid Vashlakova found at frisco-squid.blogspot.com The Kallavala compiled by Elias Lone-Rot translated by John Martin Crawford. Rune 43 The sample lost in the sea. Louis, hostess of Poyola, called her many tribes together, gave the archers bows and arrows, gave her brave men spears and broadswords, fitted out her mightiest warship in the vessel placed to army, with her swords a hundred heroes with their bows a thousand archers, quick erected masts and sailyards, on the masts her sail the linen hanging like the clouds of heaven, like the white clouds in the ether sailed across the seas of Poyola to retake the wondrous sample from the heroes of Vanola. Venom Moinen, old and faithful, sailed across the deep blue waters, spake these words to Lemmkainen. Although daring a son of Lembo, best of all my friends and heroes, mount the highest of the top masts, look before you into ether, look behind you at the heavens, while examine the horizon where the clear are filled with trouble. Climb the daring Lemmkainen ever ready for a venture to the highest of the masts heads. Look to eastward, also westward, look to northward, also southward, then address where is Vanom Moinen. Clear the sky appears before me, but behind a dark horizon and the north the cloud is rising and the longer cloud at northwest. Vanom Moinen thus made answer, are thus speaking truth or fiction? I am fearful that the warships of Poyola are pursuing. Look again with Keener vision. Thereupon Wild Lemmkainen looked again and spake as follows. In the distant seems a forest. In the south appears an island aspen grows with falcons laden, alders laden with the woodgrouse. Spake the ancient Vanom Moinen. Surely thou art speaking falsehood, tis no forest in the distance, neither aspen, birch, no alders laden with the grouse or falcon. I am fearful that Poyola follows with their magic armies. Look again with Keener vision. Then the daring Lemmkainen looked a third time from the top mast. Spake, and these the words be uttered. From the north the boat pursues us, driven by a hundred rowers carrying a thousand heroes. Knew at last Old Vanom Moinen knew the truth of his inquiry. Thus addressed his fleeing people. Row, O blacksmith Ilmarainen, row, O mighty Lemmkainen, row, all ye my noble oarsmen, that our boat may skim the waters may escape from our pursuers. Rowed the blacksmith Ilmarainen, rowed the mighty Lemmkainen, with him rowed the other heroes, heavily grown in the helm of birchwood, loudly rattled all the rollox. All the vessels shook and trembled, like a cataract had thundered, as it plowed the waste of waters tossed in sea foam to the heavens. Strongly rowed Vanola's forces, strongly wore their arms united, but the distance did not widen, took the boat and their pursuers. Quick the hero, Vanom Moinen saw misfortune hanging over, saw destruction in the distance, heavy-hearted, long-reflecting, trouble laden, spake as follows. Only as there was salvation no one miracle for safety. Then he grasped his box of tinder from the box he took of Flintstone. Of the tinder took some fragments, cast the fragments in the waters, spake these words of master magic. Led from these arise a mountain from the bottom of the deep sea, let a rock arise in water, that the worship of Poyola, with her thousand men and heroes, may be wrecked upon the summit by the aid of surging billows. Instantly a reef arises, and the sea springs up a mountain, eastward westward through the waters. Came the worship of the Northland through the floods the boat came steering, sailed against the mountain ledges, fastened on the rocks in water, wrecked upon the mount of magic. In the deep sea fell the top masts, fell the sails upon the billows, carried by the winds and waters of the waves of toil and trouble. Louie, hostess of Poyola, tries to free her sinking vessel, tries to rescue from destruction, but she cannot raise the warship firmly fixed upon the mountain. Shattered are the ribs and rudder, ruined is the ship of Poya. Then the hostess of the Northland muched his heart and spake as follows. We're the force and earth or heaven that will help us soul in trouble. Quick, she changes form and feature, makes herself another body, takes five sharpened sides of iron, also takes five goodly sickles, shapes them into eagle talons, takes the body of the vessel, makes the framework of an eagle, takes the vessel's ribs and flooring, makes them into wings and breastplate, for the tail she shapes the rudder, in the wings she plants a thousand seniors with their bows and arrows, sets a thousand magic heroes in the body, armed with broadswords, and the tail a hundred archers with their deadly spears and crossbows, thus the bird is hero feathered. Quick, she spreads her mighty opinions, rises as a monster eagle, flies on high in sores and circles, with one wing she sweeps the heavens while the other sweeps the waters. Spake the hero's ocean, mother. Oh, the ancient Vena Moinin, turn thy vision to the northeast, cast thine eyes upon the sunrise, look behind thy fleeing vessels, see the eagle of misfortune. Vena Moinin turned as bitten, turned his vision to the northeast, cast his eyes upon the sunrise, there beheld the Northland hostess, wicked witch of Cereola, flying as a monster eagle, swooping on his mighty warship. Flies and perches on the top mast, on the sail-yard's firmly settles, nearly overturns the vessel of the heroes of Vanola underneath the weight of envy. Then the hero, Ilmarainen, turned Uko as his refuge, thus entreated his creator. Uko, thou O God in heaven, thou creator full of mercy, goddess from impending danger, that thy children may not perish, may not meet with fell destruction. Hither bring thy magic fire-cloak, that thy people, thus protected, may resist Paola's forces. Well may fight against the hostess of the dismal Cereola, may not fall before her weapons, may not in the deep sea perish. Then the ancient Vena Moinin thus addressed the ancient Luhi, O, thou hostess of Paola, will thou not divide the sample on the fog-point in the water on the island-forest covered? Thus the Northland hostess answered, I will not divide the sample not with thee, thou evil wizard, not with wicked Vena Moinin. Quick the mighty eagle, Luhi, swoops upon the lid in colors, crests the sample in her talons. But the daring lemon-kind in the straight way draws his blade of battle, draws his broadsword from his girdle, cleaves the talons of the eagle one toe only is uninjured, speaks his magic words of conquest. Down ye spears and down ye broadswords, down ye thousand witless heroes, down ye feathered hosts of Luhi. Speak the hostess of Paola, calling, screeching from the sail-yards, O, thou faithless lemon-kind, wicked wizard, Kako Meili, to deceive thy trusting mother, thou just give to her thy promise not to go to war for ages, not to war for sixty summers, thou desire for golden pelsthe, though thou wishest gold and silver. Vena Moinin, ancient hero, the eternal wisdom-singer, thinking he had met destruction, snapped the rudder from the waters, with it smote the monster-eagle, smote the eagle's iron talons, smote her golden talons, smote the eagle's iron talons, smote her countless-feathered heroes, from her breast her host descended, swim and fell upon the billows from the wings descended thousand, from the tail a hundred archers. Swoops again the bird of Paola to the bottom of the vessel. Like the hawk from birch or aspen like the falcon from the linden, grasps the sampa with one talon, drags the treasure to the waters, drops the magic lid and colors from the redrim of the warship of the deep sea, where the sampa breaks in pieces, scatters through the aloo waters, and mighty deeps for ages to increase the oceans' treasures, treasures for the hosts of Otto. Nevermore will there be wanting richness for the Otto nation, never while the moonlight brightens on the waters of the Northland. Many fragments of the sampa floated on the purple waters, on the waters deep in boundless, rocked by winds and waves of swelmy, carried by the rolling billows to the seasides of Vainola. Vainomoinan, ancient minstrel, saw the fragments of the treasures floating on the billows' landward. Fragments of the lid and colors, much rejoicing, speck as follows. Thence will come the sprouting seedgrain, the beginning of good fortune, the unending of resources from the plowing and the sowing, from the glimmer of the moonlight, from the splendor of the sunshine, on the meads of Kalevala. Luhi, hostess of Poyola, thus addressed Old Vainomoinan, Know I other mighty measures, know I means that are efficient, and against that golden moonlight and the splendor of thy sunshine, and that plowing and the reaping and the rocks I'll sink the moonbeams, hide the sun within the mountain, but their frost destroy thy sowings, freeze the crops on all thy cornfields, iron hail I'll send from heaven those of thine acres, on the barley of thy planting I'll drive the bear from forests, send the old sow from the thickets, that he may destroy thy cattle, may annihilate thy sheepfolds, may destroy thy seeds at pasture, I'll send thine nine diseases, each more fatal than the other, that will sicken all thy people, make thy children sink and perish, never more to visit Northland, never while the moonlight glimmers in the plains of Kalevala. Thus the ancient broad made answer. Not a lapelender can banish Vainamoinan and his people. Never can a turylander drive my tribes from Kalevala. God alone has power to banish. God controls the fate of nations. Never trust the arms of evil, never gives his strength to others. As I trust in my creator, Kalaupon bin Dingnet Uko, I will guard my crops from danger, drive the frost field from my cornfields, drive great oldso to his caverns. Wicked Louis of Poyola, they'll can't Spanish evildoers, and the rocks can't hide the wicked, and the mountains lock the guilty, they'll can't never hide the moonlight, never bide the silver sunshine in the caverns of thy kingdom, freeze the crops of thine own planting, freeze the barley of thy sowing, send thine iron hail from heaven to destroy the lapland cornfields, to annihilate thy people, to destroy the hoists of Poya. Send great oldso from the heather, send thine sharp tooth from the forest thine fields of ceriola on the herds and flocks of Louis. Thus the wicked hostess answered, all my power has departed, all my strength has gone to others, all my hope is in the deep sea and the waters lies my Sambo. Then the hostess of Poyola home departed, weeping, wailing to the land of cold and darkness, only took some worse off fragments of the Sambo to her people, carried she the lid to Poya, in the blue sea left the handle, hence the poverty of Northland and the famines of Poyola. Venomoynin, ancient minstrel, hastened to the broad sea's margin, stepped upon the shore in joyance, found their fragments of the Sambo, fragments of the lid and colors, on the borders of the waters, on the curving sands and seasides, got their hands on the waters of the sea, gathered well the Sambo relics from the waters near the fog point on the island forest covered, spake the ancient Venomoynin, spake these words in supplication, grant, O'Uko, our Creator, grant to us thy needful children, peace and happiness and plenty that our lives may be successful, that our days may end in honor, on the veils and hills of Suomi, on the prairies of Venola, in the homes of Kalavala. O'ko, wise and good Creator, O'ko, God of love and mercy, shelter and protect thy people from the evil-minded heroes, from the wiles of wicked women, that our country's plagues may leave us, that thy faithful tribes may prosper, be our friend and strong protector, be the helper of thy children and the night a roof above them in the day a shield around them, that the sunshine may not vanish, that the moonlight may not lessen, that the killing frost may leave them and destructive hail pass over, build the metal wall around us from the valleys to the heavens, build of stone and mighty fortress on the borders of Venola, where thy people live in labor as the dwelling place forever, sure protection to thy people where the wicked may not enter nor the thieves break through in pilfer, never while the moonlight glistens and the sun brings golden blessings End of Rune 43 Recorded by Squid Vajalocova, Inc. in Iowa, March 25th, 2007 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, March 2007 The Scarlet Pimpanel by Baroness Ozzie Chapter 19 The Scarlet Pimpanel At what particular moment the strange doubt first crept into Marguerite's mind she could not herself have said? With the ring tightly clutched in her hand she had run out of the room down the stairs and out into the garden where, in complete seclusion, alone with the flowers and the river and the birds, she could look again at the ring and study that device more closely. Stupidly, senselessly now, sitting beneath the shade of an overhanging sycamore, she was looking at the plain gold shield with the star-shaped little flower engraved upon it. Bah! It was ridiculous. She was dreaming. Her nerves were overwrought and she saw signs and mysteries in the most trivial coincidences. Had not everybody about town recently made a point of affecting the device of that mysterious and heroic Scarlet Pimpanel? Did she herself wear it embroidered on her gowns, set in gems and enamel in her hair? Was there strange in the fact that the Percy should have chosen to use the device as a seal-ring? He might easily have done that. Yes, quite easily. And, besides, what connection could there be between her exquisite dandy of a husband with his fine clothes and refined lazy ways and the daring plotter who rescued French victims from beneath the very eyes of the leaders of a blood-thirsty revolution? Her thoughts were in a whirl, her mind a blank. She was a young woman and was quite startled when a fresh young voice called to her across the garden. Cherie! Cherie! Where are you? And little Suzanne, fresh as a rosebud with eyes dancing with glee and brown curls fluttering in the soft morning breeze, came running across the lawn. They told me you were in the garden. She went on, prattling merrily and throwing herself with a pretty girlish impulse into Marguerite's arms. So I ran out to give you a surprise. You did not expect me quite so soon, did you, Marguerite, who had hastily concealed the ring and the faults of her kerchief, tried to respond gaily and unconcernedly to the young girl's impulsiveness. Indeed, sweet one, she said with a smile, it is delightful to have you all to myself and for a nice whole long day. You won't be bored. Oh, bored? Marguerite! How can you say such a wicked thing? Why, when we were in the duo convent together, we were always happy when we were allowed to be alone together, and to talk secrets. The two young girls had linked their arms in one another's and began wandering around the garden. Oh, how lovely your home is, Marguerite, darling, said little Suzanne enthusiastically, and how happy you must be. I, indeed, I ought to be happy, oughtn't I, sweet one, said Marguerite with a wistful little sigh. How sadly you say it, Cherie. Ah, well, I suppose now that you are a married woman, you won't get to talk secrets with me any longer. Oh, what lots and lots of secrets we used to have at school. Do you remember? Some we did not even confide to sister Teresa of the Holy Angels, though she was such a dear. And now you have one all-important secret, eh, little one, said Marguerite merrily, which you are forthwith going to confide in me. Nay, you need not blush, Cherie," she added, as she saw Suzanne's pretty little face crimson with blushes. Faith there's not to be ashamed of. He is a noble and true man, and one to be proud of as a lover, and as a husband. Indeed, Cherie, I am not ashamed, rejoined Suzanne softly, and it makes me very, very proud to hear you speak so well of him. I think Mama will consent," she added thoughtfully, and I shall be all so happy. But, of course, nothing is to be thought of until Papa is safe. Marguerite started, Suzanne's father, the Comte Tournée, one of those whose life would be jeopardized if Chauvelin succeeded in establishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. She had understood all along from the Comtesse and also from one or two of the members of the League that their mysterious leader had pledged his honour to bring the fugitive Comte Tournée safely out of France, whilst little Suzanne, unconscious of all, save her own all-important little secret, went prattling on. Marguerite's thoughts went back to the events of the past night. Armand's peril, Chauvelin's threat, his cruel either or, which she had accepted, and then her own work in the matter, which should have culminated at one o'clock in Lord Gremville's dining-room when the relentless agent of the French government would finally learn who was this mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel who so openly defied an army of spies and placed himself so boldly and for mere sport on the side of the enemies of France. Since then she had heard nothing from Chauvelin. She had concluded that he had failed and yet she had not felt anxious about Armand because her husband had promised her that Armand would be safe. But now, suddenly, as Suzanne prattled merrily along, an awful horror came upon her for what she had done. Chauvelin had told her nothing, it was true, but she remembered how sarcastic and evil he looked when she took final leave of him after the ball. Had he discovered something then? Had he already laid his plans for catching the daring plotter red-handed in France and sending him to the guillotine without compunction or delay? Marguerite turned sick with horror and her hand convulsively clutched the ring in her dress. You are not listening, Cherie," said Suzanne reproachfully as she paused in her long, highly interesting narrative. Yes, yes, darling, indeed I am," said Marguerite with an effort forcing herself to smile. I love to hear you talking and your happiness makes me so very glad. Have no fear. We will manage to propitiate Mama. So Andrew Folks is a noble English gentleman. He has money and position. The contest will not refuse her consent. Now, little one, tell me, what is the latest news about your father? Oh, said Suzanne with mad glee, the best we could possibly hear. My Lord Hastings came to see Mama early this morning. He said that all is now well with Diapapa and we may safely expect him here in England in less than four days. Yes, said Marguerite, whose glowing eyes were fastened on Suzanne's lips as she continued merrily. Oh, we have no fear now. You don't know, Cherie, that that great noble Scarlet Pimpernel himself has gone to save Papa. He has gone, Cherie, actually gone, added Suzanne excitedly. He was in London this morning. He will be in Calais, perhaps tomorrow, where he will meet Papa. And then, and then the blow had fallen. She had expected it all along, though she had tried for the last half hour to delude herself and to cheat her fears. He had gone to Calais, had been in London this morning. He, the Scarlet Pimpernel, Percy Blakeney, her husband, whom she had betrayed last night to Chauvelin. Percy. Percy, her husband, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Oh, how could she have been so blind? She understood it all now, all at once. That party played the mass-key war in order to throw dust in everybody's eyes. And all for the sheer sport and devilry, of course. Saving men, women and children from death as other men destroy and kill animals for the excitement, the love of a thing. The idle, rich man wanted some aim in life. He and the few young bucks he enrolled under his banner had amused themselves for months in risking their lives for the sake of an innocent few. Perhaps he had meant to tell her when they were first married. And then the story of the marquise Sancio had come to his ears, and he had suddenly turned from her, thinking, no doubt, that she might some day betray him and his comrades who had sworn to follow him. He tricked her, as he tricked all others, whilst hundreds now owed their lives to him, and many lives owed him both life and happiness. The mask of an inane fob had been a good one, and the part consumedly well played. No wonder that Chauvelin's spies had failed to detect, in the apparently brainless nincompoop, the man whose reckless, daring, and resourceful ingenuity had baffled the keenest French spies, both in France and in England. Even last night, when Chauvelin had a room to seek that daring Scarlett Pimpernel, he only saw that inane, Sir Percy Blakeney, fast asleep in a corner of the sofa. Had his astute mind guessed the secret then? Here lay the whole, awful, horrible, amazing puzzle. In betraying a nameless stranger to his fate in order to save her brother, had Margaret Blakeney sent her husband to his death? No, no, no, a thousand times no. Surely fate could not deal a blow like that. Nature itself would rise and revolt. Her hand, when it held that tiny scrap of paper last night, would surely have been struck numb, and it committed a deed so appalling and so terrible. But what is it, Cherie? said little Suzanne, now genuinely alarmed, for Margaret's colour had become dull and ashen. Are you ill, Margaret? What is it? Nothing, nothing, child. She murmured, as in a dream. Wait a moment. Let me think. Think. You said the Scarlett Pimpernel had gone to-day. Margaret, Cherie, what is it? You frightened me. It is nothing, child, I tell you, nothing. I must be alone a minute, and, dear one, I may have to curtail our time together today. I may have to go away. You'll understand? I understand that something has happened, Cherie, and that you want to be alone. I won't be a hindrance to you. Don't think of me. My maid Lucille has not yet gone. We will go back together. Don't think of me. She threw her arms impulsively round Margaret. Child as she was, she felt the poignancy of her friend's grief and with the infinite tact of her girlish tenderness, she did not try to pry into it, but was ready to efface herself. She kissed Margaret again and again, then walked sadly back across the lawn. Margaret did not move. She remained there, thinking, wondering what was to be done. Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace steps, a groom came running round the house towards his mistress, a sealed letter in his hand. Suzanne instinctively turned back. Her heart told her that here, perhaps, was further ill news for her friend, and she felt that poor Margot was not in a fit state to bear any more. The groom stood respectfully beside his mistress, then he handed her the sealed letter. What is that? asked Margaret. Just come by, run him a lady. Margaret took the letter mechanically, and turned it over in her trembling fingers. But his orders were to deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand from whom it came. Margaret tore open the envelope. Already her instinct told her what it contained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically. It was a letter by Armand Saint-Just to her Andrew folks. The letter which Chauvelin's spies had stolen at the fisherman's rest, and which Chauvelin had held as a rod over her to enforce her obedience. Now he had kept his word. For he was on the track of the scarlet pimpenel. Margaret's senses reeled. Her very soul seemed to be leaving her body. She tottered, and would have fallen but for Suzanne's arm around her waist. With superhuman effort she regained control over herself. There was yet much to be done. Bring that runner here to me, she said to the servant, with much calm. He has not gone. Know my lady. The groom went, and Margaret turned to get ready. I fear that I must send you home, child, and—stay—tell one of the maids to prepare a travelling dress and cloak for me." Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Margaret tenderly and obeyed without a word. The child was overawed by the terrible, nameless misery in her friend's face. A minute later the groom returned, followed by the runner who had brought the letter. Who gave you this packet? asked Margaret. And you would understand. At the Rose and Thistle. What was he doing? He was waiting for the coach, your ladyship, which he had ordered. The coach? Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood from his man that he was posted straight to Dover. That's enough. You may go. She turned to the groom. My coach and the four swiftest horses in the stables to be ready at once. The groom and runner both went quickly and entered as a statue. Her eyes were fixed. Her hands were tightly clasped across her breast. Her lips moved as they murmured with pathetic, heartbreaking persistence. What's to be done? What's to be done? Where to find him? O God! Grant me light! But this was not the moment for remorse and despair. She had done, unwittingly, an awful and terrible thing. The very worst crime in her eyes that woman ever committed. She saw it in all its horror. Not having guessed her husband's secret seemed now to her another deadly sin. She ought to have known. She ought to have known. How could she imagine that a man who could love with so much intensity as Percy Blakeney had loved her from the first? How could such a man be the brainless idiot he chose to appear? She at least ought to have known that he was wearing a mask, and having found that out, she ought to have torn it from his face whenever they were alone together. She had known her own pride, and she too had worn a mask in assuming a contempt for him, whilst, as a matter of fact, she completely misunderstood him. But there was no time now to go over the past. By her own blindness she had sinned. Now she must repay, not by empty remorse, but by prompt and useful action. Percy had started for Calais, utterly unconscious of the fact that his most relentless enemy was on his heels. He had set sail early that morning in the wind. He would no doubt be in France within twenty-four hours. No doubt he had reckoned on the wind and chosen this route. Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post a dove, charter a vessel there, and undoubtedly reach Calais much about the same time. Once in Calais, Percy would meet all those who were eagerly waiting for the noble and brave Scarlett Pimpanel who had come to rescue them from horrible and unmerited death. With Chauvelin's eyes now fixed upon his every movement, but that of Suzanne's father, the old Comte Tournée, and of those other fugitives who were waiting for him and trusting in him, there was also Armand, who had gone to meet the Tournée, secure in the knowledge that the Scarlett Pimpanel was watching over his safety. All these lives, and that of her husband, lay in Marguerite's hands. These she must save if human pluck and ingenuity were equal to the task. Unfortunately, she could not do all this quite alone. Once in Calais she would not know the husband, whilst Chauvelin, in stealing the papers at Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary. Above every thing, she wished to warn Percy. She knew enough about him by now to understand that he would never abandon those who trusted in him, that he would not turn his back from danger and leave the Comte Tournée to fall into the blood-firsty hands that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned, he might form new plans, be more wary, more prudent. Unconsciously he might fall into a cunning trap, but if he was warned, he might yet succeed. And if he failed, if indeed Fate and Chauvelin, with all the resources at his command, proved too strong for the daring plotter after all, then at least she would be there by his side, to comfort, love, and cherish, to cheat death perhaps at the last by making it seem sweet. If they died both together, locks in each other's arms, with the supreme happiness of knowing that passion had responded to passion and that all misunderstandings were at an end. All bodies stiffened as with a great and firm resolution. This she meant to do if God gave her wits and strength. Her eyes lost their fixed look. They glowed with inward fire at the thought of meeting him again so soon in the very midst of most deadly perils. They sparkled with the joy of sharing these dangers with him, of helping him perhaps, of being with him at the last, if she failed. The childlike sweet face had become hard and set. The curved mouth was closed tightly over her clenched teeth. To do or die with him and for his sake. A frown, which spoke of an iron will and unbending resolution, appeared between the two straight brows. Already her plans were formed. She would go and find her Andrew folks first. He was Percy's best friend, and Marguerite remembered with a thrill with what blind enthusiasm the young man always spoke of his mysterious leader. He would help her where she needed help. Her coach was ready. A change of Raymond and a farewell to little Suzanne, and she would be on her way. Without haste, but without hesitation, she walked quietly into the house. End of Chapter 19 Diddle diddle diddle diddle dum dum dum said or sang Eleanor Bold. Diddle diddle diddle diddle dum dum dum continued Mary Bold, taking up the second part in this concerted piece. The only audience at the concert was the baby. Who, however, gave such vociferous applause that the performers, presuming it to amount to an encore, commenced again. Diddle diddle diddle diddle dum dum dum hasn't he got lovely legs, said the rapturous mother. Mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm simmered Mary, burying her lips in the little fellow's fat neck by way of kissing him. Mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm simmered the mama, burying her lips also in his fat round short legs. He's a dotty little bold darling, so he is and he has the nicest little pink legs in all the world, so he has. And the simmering and the kissing went on over again, as though the ladies were very hungry and determined to eat him. Well, then, he's his own mother's own darling. Well, he shall oh, oh, Mary, Mary, did you ever see? What am I to do, my knotty knotty knotty knotty little Johnny? All these energetic exclamations were elicited by the delight of the mother in finding that her son was strong enough and mischievous enough to pull all her hair out from under her cap. He's been and pulled down all mama's hair and he's the knottyest knottyest knottyest little man that ever, ever, ever, ever a regular service of baby worship was going on. Mary Bold was sitting on a low, easy chair with the boy on her lap and Eleanor was kneeling before the object of her idolatry. As she tried to cover up the little fellow's face with her long, glossy dark brown locks and permitted him to pull them hither and thither as he would, she looked very beautiful in spite of the widow's cap which she still wore. There was a quiet, enduring, grateful sweetness about her face which grew so strongly upon those who knew her as to make the great praise of her beauty which came from her old friends appear marvellously exaggerated to those who were only slightly acquainted with her. Her loveliness was like that of many landscapes which required to be often seen to be fully enjoyed. The depth of dark, clear brightness in her eyes which was lost upon the quick observer, a character about her mouth which only showed itself to those with whom she familiarly conversed. A glorious form of head, the perfect symmetry of which required the eye of an artist for its appreciation. She had none of that dazzling brilliancy, of that voluptuous Ruben's beauty, of that pearly whiteness and those vermilion tints which matched with the power of a basilisk men who came within reach of Madeline Neroni. It was all but impossible to resist this senora but no one was called upon for any resistance towards Eleanor. You might begin to talk to her as though she were your sister and it would not be till your head was on your pillow that the truth and intensity of her beauty would flash upon you, that the sweetness of her voice would flash upon your ear. A sudden half-hour with the Neroni was like falling into a pit, an evening spent with Eleanor like an unexpected ramble in some quiet field of Asphodel. We'll cover him up till there shan't be a morsel of his little, little, little nose to be seen," said the mother stretching her streaming locks over the infant's face. The child screamed with delight and kicked till Marybold was hardly at this moment the door opened and Mr. Slope was announced. Up jumped Eleanor and with a sudden quick motion of her hands pushed back her hair over her shoulders. It would have been perhaps better for her that she had not, for she thus showed more of her confusion than she would have done had she remained as she was. Mr. Slope, however, immediately recognized her loveliness and thought to himself that, irrespective of her fortune, would be a partner for his house, a partner for his bosom's care, very well qualified to make care lie easy. Eleanor hurried out of the room to readjust her cap, muttering some unnecessary apology about her baby, and while she is gone we will briefly go back and state what had been hitherto the results of Mr. Slope's meditations on his scheme of matrimony. His inquiries as to the widow's income had at any rate been so far successful as to induce him to determine to go on with the speculation. As regarded Mr. Harding he had also resolved to do what he could without injury to himself. To Mrs. Proudy he determined not to speak on the matter, at least not at present. His object was to instigate a little rebellion on the part of the bishop. He thought that such a state of things would be advisable not only in respect to Mr. Harding and Quiverful but also in the affairs of the diocese generally. Mr. Slope was by no means of opinion that Dr. Proudy was fit to rule but he conscientiously thought it wrong that his brother clergy should be subjected to petticoat government. He therefore made up his mind to infuse a little of his spirit into the bishop, sufficient to induce him to oppose his wife to make him altogether insubordinate. He had therefore taken an opportunity of again speaking to his lordship about the hospital and had endeavored to make it appear that after all it would be unwise to exclude Mr. Harding from the appointment. Mr. Slope, however, had a harder task than he had imagined. Mrs. Proudy, anxious to assume to herself as much as possible of the merit of patronage, had written to Mrs. Quiverful, requesting her to call at the palace and had then explained to that matron with much mystery, condescension and dignity the good that was in store for her and her progeny. Indeed Mrs. Proudy had been so engaged at the very time that Mr. Slope had been doing the same with the husband at Puttington Vicarage and had thus in a measure committed herself. The thanks, the humility, the gratitude, the surprise of Mrs. Quiverful had been very overpowering. She had all but embraced the knees of her patroness and had promised that the prayers of fourteen unprovided babes—so Mrs. Quiverful had described her own family, the eldest of which was a stout young woman of three and twenty—should be again morning and evening for the munificent friend whom God had sent to them. Such insense as this was not unpleasing to Mrs. Proudy, and she made the most of it. She offered her general assistance to the fourteen unprovided babes if as she had no doubt she should find them worthy, expressed a hope that the eldest of them would be fit to undertake tuition in Sabbath schools, and altogether made herself a very great lady in the estimation of Mrs. Quiverful. Having done this, she thought it prudent to drop a few words before the bishop, letting him know that she had acquainted the Puddingdale family with their good fortune, so that he might perceive that he stood committed to the appointment. The husband well understood the ruse of his wife, knew that she was taking the patronage out of his hands. He was resolved to put an end to her interference and reassume his powers. But then he thought this was not the best time to do it. He put off the evil hour, as many a man in similar circumstances has done before him. Such having been the case, Mr. Slope naturally encountered a difficulty in talking over the bishop, a difficulty indeed he found could not be overcome except at the cost of a general outbreak at the palace. A general outbreak at the present moment might be good policy, but it also might not. It was at any rate not a step to be lightly taken. He began by whispering to the bishop that he feared that public opinion would be against him if Mr. Harding did not reappear at the hospital. The bishop answered with some warmth that Mr. Quiverful had been promised the appointment on Mr. Slope's advice. Not promised, said Mr. Slope. Yes, promised, replied the bishop, and Mrs. Proudy has seen Mrs. Quiverful on the subject. This was quite unexpected on the part of Mr. Slope, but his presence of mind did not fail him, and he turned the statement to his own account. Ah, my lord, said he, we shall all be in scrapes if the ladies interfere. This was too much in unison with my lord's feelings to be altogether unpalatable, and yet such an allusion to interference demanded a rebuke. My lord was somewhat astounded also, though not altogether made miserable, by finding that there was a point of difference between his wife and his chaplain. I don't know what you mean by interference, said the bishop mildly. When Mrs. Proudy heard that Mrs. Quiverful was to be appointed, it was not unnatural that she should wish to see Mrs. Quiverful about the schools. I really cannot say that I see any interference. I can only speak, my lord, for your own comfort, said Slope, for your own comfort and dignity in the diocese. I can have no other motive. As far as personal feelings go, Mrs. Proudy is the best friend I have. I must always remember that, but still in my present position my first duty is to your lordship. I'm sure of that, Mr. Slope, I'm quite sure of that, said the bishop, mollified. And you really think that Mr. Harding should have the hospital? Upon my word I'm inclined to think so. I am quite prepared to take upon myself the blame of first suggesting Mr. Quiverful's name. But since doing so I have found that there is so strong a feeling in the diocese in favour of Mr. Harding that I think your lordship should give way. I hear also that Mr. Harding has modified the objections he first felt to your lordship's propositions. And as to what has passed between Mrs. Proudy and Mrs. Quiverful, the circumstance may be a little inconvenient, but I really do not think that that should weigh in a matter of so much moment. And thus the poor bishop was left in a dreadfully undecided step as to what he should do. His mind, however, slightly inclined itself to the appointment of Mr. Harding, seeing that by such a step he should have the assistance of Mr. Slope in opposing Mrs. Proudy. Such was the state of affairs at the palace when Mr. Slope called at Mrs. Bold's house and found her playing with her baby. When she ran out of the room Mr. Slope began praising the weather to Mary Bold. Then he praised the baby and kissed him. And then he praised the mother and then he praised Miss Bold herself. Mrs. Bold, however, was not long before she came back. I have to apologize for calling it so very early an hour began Mr. Slope, but I was really so anxious to speak to you that I hope you and Miss Bold will excuse me. Eleanor muttered something in which the words certainly and of course and not early at all were just audible and then apologized for her own appearance declaring a smile that her baby was becoming such a big boy that he was quite unmanageable. He's a great big naughty boy, she said to the child and we must send him away to a great big rough romping school where they have great big rods and do terrible things to naughty boys who don't do what their own mamas tell them. And then she commenced another course of kissing being actuated there too by the terrible idea of sending her child away which her own imagination had depicted. And where the masters don't have such beautiful long hair to be disheveled said Mr. Slope taking up the joke and paying a compliment at the same time. Eleanor thought he might as well have left the compliment alone but she said nothing and looked nothing being occupied as she was with the baby. Let me take him said Mary his clothes are nearly off his back with his romping off the room with the child. Miss Bold had heard Mr. Slope say he had something pressing to say to Eleanor and thinking that she might be Detroh took this opportunity of getting herself out of the room. Don't be long Mary said Eleanor as Miss Bold shut the door. I am glad Mrs. Bold to have the opportunity of having ten minutes conversation with you alone began Mr. Slope will you let me openly ask you a plain question certainly said she and I am sure you will give me a plain and open answer either that or none at all said she laughing my question is this Mrs. Bold is your father really anxious to go back to the hospital why do you ask me said she why don't you ask himself my dear Mrs. Bold I'll tell you why there are wheels all within wheels all of which I would explain to you only I fear that there is not time it is essentially necessary that I should have an answer to this question otherwise I cannot know how to advance your father's wishes and it is quite impossible that I should ask himself no one can esteem your father more than I do but I doubt if this feeling is reciprocal certainly was not I must be candid with you as the only means of avoiding ultimate consequences which may be most injurious to Mr. Harding I fear there is a feeling I will not even call it a prejudice with regard to myself in Barchester which is not in my favor you remember that sermon oh Mr. Slope I said Eleanor for one moment Mrs. Bold it is not that I may talk of myself but because it is so essential that you should understand how matters stand that sermon may have been ill-judged it was certainly misunderstood but I will say nothing about that now only this that it did give rise to a feeling against myself it may be that he has proper cause but the result is that he is not inclined to meet me on friendly terms I put it to yourself whether you do not know this to be the case Eleanor made no answer and Mr. Slope in the eagerness of his address edged his chair a little nearer to the widow's seat unperceived by her as such being so continued Mr. Slope did not ask him this question as I can ask it of you in spite of my delinquencies since I came to Barchester you have allowed me to regard you as a friend Eleanor made a little motion with her head which was hardly confirmatory but Mr. Slope, if he noticed it did not appear to do so to you I can speak openly and explain the feelings of my heart this your father would not allow unfortunately the bishop has thought it right that this matter of the hospital should pass through my hands there have been some details to get up with which he would not trouble himself and thus it has come to pass that I was forced to have an interview with your father on the matter I am aware of that said Eleanor of course he said in the interview Mr. Harding left the impression on my mind that he did not wish to return to the hospital how could that be said Eleanor at last stirred up to forget the cold propriety of demeanor which she had determined to maintain my dear Mrs. Bold I give you my word that such was the case said he again getting a little nearer to her and more than that before my interview with Mr. Harding certain persons at the palace I do not mean the bishop had told me that such was the fact I own I hardly believed it I own I thought that your father would wish on every account for conscience's sake for the sake of those old men for old association and the memory of dear days long gone by on every account I thought that he would wish to resume his duties but I was told that such was not his wish and he certainly left me with the impression that I had been told the truth well said Eleanor now sufficiently roused on the matter I hear Miss Bold's step said Mr. Slope would it be asking too great a favour to beg you to I know you can manage anything with Miss Bold Eleanor did not like the word manage but still she went out and asked Mary to leave them alone for another quarter of an hour thank you Mrs. Bold I am so very grateful for this confidence well I left your father with this impression indeed I may say that he made me understand that he declined the appointment not the appointment said Eleanor I am sure he did not decline the appointment but he said that he would not agree that is that he did not like the scheme about the schools and the services and all that I am quite sure he never said that he wished to refuse the place oh Mrs. Bold said Mr. Slope in a manner almost impassioned I would not for the world say to so good a daughter a word against so good a father but you must for his sake show you exactly how the matter stands at present Mr. Harding was a little flurried when I told him of the bishops wishes about the school I did so perhaps with the less caution because you yourself had so perfectly agreed with me on the same subject he was a little put out and spoke warmly tell the bishop said he that I quite disagree with him I will not return to the hospital as such conditions are attached to it what he said was to that effect indeed his words were if anything stronger than those I had no alternative but to repeat them to his lordship who said that he could look on them in no other light than a refusal he also had heard the report that your father did not wish for the appointment and putting all these things together he thought he had no choice but to seek for someone else he has consequently offered the place to Mr. Quiverful offered the place to Mr. Quiverful repeated Eleanor her eyes suffused with tears then Mr. Slope there is an end of it no my friend not so said he it is to prevent such being the end of it that I am here now I may at any rate presume that I have got an answer to my question and that Mr. Harding is desirous of returning desirous of returning of course he is said Eleanor of course he wishes to have back his house and his income and his place in the world to have back what he gave up with such self-denying honesty if he can have them without restraints on his conduct to which at his age it would be impossible that he should submit how can the bishop ask a man of his age to turn schoolmaster to a pack of children out of the question said Mr. Slope laughing slightly of course no such demand shall be made on your father I can at any rate promise you that I will not be the medium of any so absurd requisition we wished your father to preach in the hospital naturally be too old to leave it but even that shall not be insisted on we wished also to attach a sabbath day school to the hospital thinking that such an establishment could not but be useful under the surveillance of so good a clergyman as Mr. Harding and also under your own but dear Mrs. Bold we won't talk of these things now one thing is clear we must do what we can to annul this rash offer the bishop has made to Mr. Quiverful your father wouldn't see Quiverful would he Quiverful is an honourable man and would not for a moment stand in your father's way what said Eleanor ask a man with fourteen children to give up his preferment I am quite sure he will do no such thing I suppose not said Slope dear to Mrs. Bold so that now they were very close to each other Eleanor did not think much about it but instinctively moved away a little how greatly would she have increased the distance could she have guessed what had been said about her at Plumstead I suppose not but it is out of the question that Quiverful should supersede your father quite out of the question the bishop has been too rash an idea occurs to me which may perhaps with God's blessing put us right my dear Mrs. Bold would you object to seeing the bishop yourself why should not my father see him said Eleanor she had once before in her life interfered in her father's affairs and then not to much advantage she was older now and felt she should take no step in a matter so vital to him without his consent why to tell the truth said Mr. Slope with a look of sorrow as though he greatly bewailed the want of charity in his patron the bishop fancies that he has cause of anger against your father I fear an interview would lead to further ill will why said Eleanor my father is the mildest gentlest man living I only know said Slope that he has the best of daughters so you would not see the bishop as to getting an interview I could manage that for you without the slightest annoyance to yourself I could do nothing Mr. Slope without consulting my father ah said he that would be useless you would then only be your father's messenger does anything occur to yourself something must be done your father shall not be ruined by so ridiculous a misunderstanding Eleanor said that nothing occurred to her but that it was very hard the tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks Mr. Slope would have given much to have had the privilege of drying them but he had tacked enough to know that he had still a great deal to do before he could even hope for any privilege with Mrs. Bold it cuts me to the heart to see you so grieved said he but pray let me assure you that your father's interests shall not be sacrificed if it be possible for me to protect them I will tell the bishop openly what are the facts I will explain to him that he has hardly the right to appoint any other than your father and will show him that if he does so he will be guilty of great injustice you Mrs. Bold you will have the charity at any rate to believe this of me that I am truly anxious for your father's welfare for his and for your own the widow hardly knew what answer to make she was quite aware that her father would not be at all thankful to Mr. Slope she had a strong wish to share her father's feelings and yet she could not but acknowledge that Mr. Slope was very kind her father who was generally so charitable to all men who seldom spoke ill of anyone had warned her against Mr. Slope and yet she did not know how to abstain from thanking him what interest could he have in the matter but that which he professed nevertheless there was that in his manner which even she distrusted she felt she did not know why that there was something about him which ought to put her on her guard Mr. Slope read all this in her hesitating manner just as plainly as though she had opened her heart to him it was the talent of the man that he could so read the inward feelings of women with whom he conversed he knew that Eleanor was doubting him and that if she thanked him she would only do so because she could not help it but yet this did not make him angry or even annoy him I did not come for thanks continued he seeing her hesitation and do not want them at any rate before they are merited but this I do want Mrs. Bold that I may make to myself friends in this fold to which it has pleased God to call me as one of the humblest of his shepherds if I cannot do so my task here must indeed be a sad one I will at any rate endeavor to deserve them I am sure said she you will soon make plenty of friends she felt herself obliged to say something that will be nothing unless they are such as will sympathize with my feelings unless they are such as I can reverence and admire and love if the best and purest turn away from me I cannot bring myself satisfied with the friendship of the less estimable in such case I must live alone oh I am sure you will not do that Mr. Slope Eleanor meant nothing but it suited him to appear to think some special illusion had been intended indeed Mrs. Bold I shall live alone quite alone as far as the heart is concerned if those with whom I yearn to ally myself turn away from me but enough of this I have called you my friend and I hope you will not contradict me I trust the time may come when I may also call your father so may God bless you Mrs. Bold you and your darling boy and tell your father from me that what can be done for his interest shall be done and so he took his leave pressing the widow's hand rather more closely than usual circumstances however seemed just then to make this intelligible and the lady did not feel called on to resent it I cannot understand him said Eleanor to Mary Bold a few minutes afterwards I do not know whether he is a good man or a bad man whether he is true or false then give him the benefit of the doubt said Mary and believe the best on the whole I think I do said Eleanor I think I do believe that he means well and if so it is a shame that we should revile him and make him miserable while he is among us but oh Mary I fear papa will be disappointed in the hospital end of chapter 16